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MUNRO’S PUBLICATIONS. 

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ALWAYS CrVCHAIVOLD ArV]> IJIVAUKlOQED. 


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1 Lady Valworth’s Diamonds. By 

“ The Duchess ” 25 

2 A True Magdalen. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

3 A House Party. By “ Ouida.”. 25 

4 For Another’s Sin; or, A Strug- 

gle for Lore. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

' Mohawks. By Miss M. E. Brad- 
don. First half 25 

5 Mohawks. By Miss M, E. Brad- 

don, Second half 25 

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der Dolores !” “ The Duchess ” 25 

7 A Woman’s Error. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

8 Lady Branksmere. • By “ The 

Duchess” 25 

9 The World Between Them. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

10 Wife in Name Only. By Char- 

lotte M, Braeme 25 

11 Kidnapped. By Robert Louis 

Stevenson 25 

12 A Mental Struggle. By “The 

Duchess” 25 

18 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 
Mr. Hyde, and Prince Otto. By 
Robert Louis Stevenson 25 

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17 Her Martyrdom. By Charlotte 

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18 Beyond Pardon. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

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Warden 25 

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21 The Guilty River. Wilkie Collins 25 

22 A Golden Heart. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

23 By Woman’s Wit. Mrs. Alexander 25 

24 She: A History of Adventure. 

By H. Rider Haggard 26 

25 Pure Gold. By Mrs. H. Lovett 

Cameron. First half 25 

25 Pure Gold, By Mrs. H, Lovett 

Cameron. Second half 25 

26 A Cardinal Sin. Hugh Conway 25 

27 My Friend Jim. W. E. Norris. 25 

28 That Other Person, By Mrs. Al- 

fred Hunt. First half 25 

28 That Other Person. By Mrs, Al- 

fred Hunt. Second half 25 

29 Ca lied Back. By Hugh Conway 25 

30 The Witch’s Head. By H. Rider 

Haggard 25 

31 King Solomon’s Mines. By H. 

Rider Haggard 25 

32 Alice's Adventures in Wonder- 

land. By Lewis Carroll 26 

33 At War With Herself. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

34 Fair Women. By Mrs. Forrester 25 
SO A Fallen Idol. By F. Anstey* • • 26 


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3(j The Mark of Cain. By Andrew 

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39 Vice Versa By F. Anstey 25 

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H. Sutherland Edwai’ds 25 

41 The Mayor of Caste rbridge. By 

Thomas Hardy 25 

42 New Arabian Nights. By Rob- 

ert Louis Stevenson 25 

43 Dark Days. By Hugh Conway. 25 

44 King Arthur. By Miss Mulock. . 25 

45 Living or Dead. Hugh Conway 25 

46 A Wicked Girl. Mary Cecil Hay 25 

47 Bound by a Spell. Hugh Conway 25 

4 a *r» j • * 1 


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ander 25 

49 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Mrs. Forrester 25 

50 The Secret of Her Life. By Ed- 

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52 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. First half 25 

52 Uncle Max. By Rosa Nouchette 

Carey. Second half 25 

53 Maid, Wife, or Widow ? and 

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54 A Woman’s Temptation. By 

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55 Once Again. Mrs. Forrester 25 


56 Vera Nevill; or. Poor Wisdom’s 
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57 The Outsider, Hawley Smart. . 25 

58 Jess. By H. Rider Haggard. .. . 25 

59 Dora Thorne. By Charlotte M. 

Braerne 25 

60 Queenie’s Whim. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. 1st half 25 

60 Queenie’s Whim. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey. 2d half 25 

61 Hilary’s Folly. By Charlotte M. 

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and Parted. By Charlotte M. 
Braerne 25 

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chette Carey. Isl half 25 

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chette Carey. 2d half 25 

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68 The ]\lerry Men. By Robert 

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Carey. First half 25 

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Carey. Second half 26 

74 Les Mis6rables. By Victor 

Hugo. Part 1 26 

74 Les Mis6rables. By Victor 
Hugo. Part II 25 

74 Les MisSrables. By Victor 

Hugo. Part HI 25 

75 One Thing Needful. By Miss M. 

E. Braddon 25 

76 The Master Passion. By Flor- 

ence Marry at 25 

77 Marjorie. Charlotte M. Braerne 25 

78 Under Two Flags. By “ Ouida” ^ 

79 The Dark House. By George 

Manville Fenn 26 

80 The House 'on the Marsh. By 

Florence Warden 25 

81 In a Grass Country. By Mrs. H. 

Lovett Cameron. 25 

82 Why Not? By Florence Marryat 25 

83 Weavers and Weft; or, “ Love 

That Hath Us in His Net.” 

By Miss M. E. Braddon 26 

84 The Professor. By Charlotte 

Bront6 25 

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Hardy 25 

86 The Dead Secret. Wilkie Collins ^ 

87 Deldee; or. The Iron Hand. By 

Florence Warden 25 

88 Springhaven. R. D, Blackmore. 

First half 25 

88 Springhaven. R. D. Blackmore. 

Second half 25 

89 A Vagrant Wife. By Florence 

Warden 25 

90 Struck Down. By Hawley Smart 25 

91 At the World’s Mercy. By Flor- 

ence Warden 25 

92 Claribel’sLove Story; or,Love’s 

Hidden Depths. By Charlotte 
M., Braerne 25 

93 The Shadow of a Sin. By Char- 

lotte M. Braerne 25 

94 Court Royal. By S. Baring- 

Gould 25 

95 Faith and Unfaith. By “The 

Duchess” 25 

96 Cherry Ripe. By Helen B. 

Mathers *. 25 

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99 From Gloom to Sunlight. By 

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100 Redeemed by Love. By Char- 

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101 A Woman’s War. By Charlotte 

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102 ’Twixt Smile and Tear. By 

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103 Lady Diana’s Pride. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

104 Sweet Cymbeliue. B 3 ' Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

105 The Belle oE Lynn. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

106 Dawn. By H. Rider Hagrgard. . 25 

107 The Tinted Venus. ByF. Anstey 25 

108 Addie’s Husband; or, Through 

Clouds to Sunshine 25 

109 The Rabbi’s Spell. By Stuart 

C. Cumberland . 25 

110 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye. By 

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111 Phyllis. By *• The Duchess ”.. . 25 

112 Tinted Vapours. By J.Maclaren 

Cobban 25 

113 A Haunted Life. By Charlotte 

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114 The Woodlanders. By Thomas 

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116 Wee W^e. By Rosa Nouchette 
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116 Worth Winning. By Mrs. H, 

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Black. First half 25 

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118 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

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119 Good-bye, Sweetheart! By 

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120 Dolores. By Mrs. Forrester 25 

121 Rossmoyne. By “The Duchess” 25 

122 A Girl’s Heart 25 

128 Garrison Gossip: Gathered in 

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Strange Winter 25 

124 File No. 113. By Emile Gaboriau 25 

125 King Solomon’s Wives. By 

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126 He. By the author of “ King 

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127 The Romance of a Poor Young 

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128 Hilda. By Charlotte M. Praeme 25 

129 The Master of the Mine. By 

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130 Portia. By “ The Duchess ”... 25 
181 Matt: A Tale of a Caravan. 

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132 Mrs. Geoff re 3 ^ “The Duchess” 25 

133 June. By Mrs. Forrester 25 

134 In Durance Vile. By “ The 

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135 Diana Carew. Mrs. Forrester. 25 

136 Loys, Lord Berresford. By 

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137 Mv Lord and My Lady. By Mrs. 

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PRICE. 

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Viva. By Mrs. Forrester 25 

Molly Bawn. “ The Duchess ” 25 

Rhona. By Mrs. Forrester 25 

Beauty’s Daughters. By “ The 

Duchess” 25 

A Maiden All Forlorn. By “ The 

Duchess” 25 

The Mystery of Colde Fell; or, 
Not Proven. By Charlotte M. 

Braeme 25 

Borderland Jessie Fothergill 26 
A Prince of Darkness. By 

Florence Warden 25 

Roy and Viola. By Mrs. For- 
rester 25 

Doris. By “ The Duchess ” 26 

Mignon. By Mrs. Forrester. . . 25 
The Crime of Christmas Day. . . 25 
The Squire’s Darling. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 25 

Robur the Conqueror. By Jules 

Verne 25 

A Dark Marriage Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

Within an Inch of His Life. By 

Emile Gaboriau 26 

Other People’s Money. By 

Emile Gaboriau 25 

Gold Elsie. By E. Marlitt 25 

Her Second Love. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. First half 25 

East Lynne. By Mrs. Henry 

Wood. Second half 25 

On Her Wedding Morn. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

Allan Quatermain. By H. Rider 

Haggard 25 

Tlie Duke’s Secret. By Char- 
lotte M Braeme 25 

Old Ma’m’selle’s Secret. By E. 

Marlitt 26 

The Shattered Idol. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 26 

A Modern Circe. By “ The Duch- 
ess ” 25 

Handy Andy. A Tale of Irish 

Life. By Samuel Lover 28 

The Earl’s Error. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 26 

Scheherazade: A London 
Night’s Entertainment. By 

Florence Warden 26 

The Duchess. By “ The Duch- 
ess ” 26 

Marvel. By “The Duchess”... 25 
Driver Dallas, and Houp-La! 

By J. S. Winter 26 

Home Again. By George Mac- 
donald 26 

The Frozen Pirate. By W. Clark 

Russell 25 

Faust. By Goethe 25 

The Three Guardsmen. By Alex- 
ander Dumas 26 


NO. 

138 

139 

140 

141 

142 

143 

144 

145 

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147 

148 

149 

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151 

152 

153 

154 

155 

156 

157 

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159 

160 

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165 

166 

167 

168 

169 

170 

171 

172 

173 

174 


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175 Moths. By“Ouida” 25 

176 The Moonstone. Wilkie Collins 25 

177 Jane Eyre. Charlotte Bront6. . 25 

178 Old Myddleton’s Money. By 

Mary Cecil Hay 25 

179 Harry Lorrequer. By Charles 

Lever 25 

180 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

First half 25 

180 Middlemarch. By George Eliot. 

Second half 25 

181 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. 1 25 

181 Monsieur Lecoq. By Emile 

Gaboriau. Vol. TI 25 

182 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 

By Jules Verne 25 


183 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon, Charles Lever. 1st half 25 

183 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 

goon. Charles Lever. 2d half ^ 

184 The Tour of the World in 80 

Days. By Jules Verne 25 

186 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 
Miss Mulock. First half 25 

185 John Halifax, Gentleman. By 

Miss Mulock. Second half. . . 25 

186 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 

First half 25 

186 Adam Bede. By George Eliot. 

Second half 25 

187 The Wreck of the “ Grosvenor.” 

By W. Clark Bussell 25 

188 Masaniello; or, The Fisherman 

of Naples. Alexander Dumas 25 

189 A Tale of Three Lions, and On 

Going Back, by H. Rider 
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by Robert Louis Stevenson. . . 25 

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Stevenson 25 

191 Texar’s Vengeance; or, North 
vs. South. By Jules Verne. 
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191 Texar’s Vengeance; or. North 

vs. South. By Jules Verne. 
Part II 25 

192 Lady Grace. B}' Mrs. Henry 

Wood 25 

193 Hidden Perils. By Mary Cecil 

Hay 25 

194 The Last Days of Pompeii. By 

Buhver Lytton 25 

195 Twenty Years After. By Alex- 

ander Dumas 25 

196 Lady Audley’s Secret. By Miss 

M. E. Braddon 25 

197 Signa’s Sweetheart. By Char- 

lotte M. Braeme 25 

198 Mona’s Choice. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 25 

199 The Bride of the Nile. By 

George Ebers. First half . 25 
199 The Bride of the Nile. By 
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NO. PRIOB. 


200 Confessions of an English Opi- 

um-Eater, and The English 
Mail-Coach. By Thomas De 
Quincey 2S 

201 A Life Interest. By Mrs. Alex- 

ander 26 

202 The Lady of the Lake. By Sir 

Walter Scott, Bart 25 

203 The 13th Hussars. By Emile 

Gaboriau 25 

204 A Queer Race. By William 

Westall 25 

205 Only the Governess. By Rosa 

Nou(;hette Carey 25 

206 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 

Greatness and His FaU. By 
Walter Besant S6 


207 Vendetta! or, The Story of One 


Forgotten. By Marie Corelli. 25 
208 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 
First half 25 

208 Saint Michael. By E. Werner. 

Second half 26 

209 Stormy Waters. By Robert Bu- 

chanan 25 

210 Only a Coral Girl. By Gertrude 

Foi-de 25 

211 The Mystery of a Hansom Cab. 

By Fergus W. Hume 25 

212 Beautiful Jim: of the Blank- 

shire Regiment. By J. S. 

1 Winter 25 

213 The Slaves of Paris. By Emile 

Gaboriau. First half 25 

213 The Slaves of Paris. By Emile 

Gaboriau, Second half 25 

214 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. First half 25 

214 Bertha’s Secret. By F. Du Bois- 

gobey. Second half 25 

215 The Severed Hand. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. First half 25 

215 The Severed Hand. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. Second half 25 

216 The Matapan Affair. By F. Du 

Boisgobey. First half 25 

216 The Matapan Affair. By F. Du 
Boisgobey. Second half 25 


217 The Old Age of Monsieur Lecoq. 

By F. Du Boisgobey. 1st half 25 

217 The Old Age of Monsieur Lecoq. 

By F. Du Boisgobey. 2d half 26 

218 The Little Old Man of the Bat- 

ignolles. By Emile Gaboriau, 
and A Modern Cinderella. By 
Charlotte M. Braeme, author 
of “ Dora Thorne ” 25 

219 Chris. By W. E. Nqrris 25 

220 A Woman’s Face; or, A Lake- 

land Mystery. By F. Warden. 26 


222 Nora. By Carl Detlef 25 

222 Mr. Meeson’s Will. By H. Rider 

Haggard 25 

223 TheLegacy of Caiu. By Wilkie 

Collins 26 

224 The Fatal Three. By Miss M. E. 

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225 The Strange Adventures of a 
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225 The Honorable Mrs. Vereker. 

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227 In the Schillingscourt. By E. 

Marh'tt 25 

228 The Heir of Linne. By Robert 

Buchanan 25 

229 Homo Sum. Bj- George Ebers 25 

230 The Passenger from Scotland 

Yard. By H. F. Wood 25 

231 Maiwa’s Revenge. By H. Rider 

Haggard 25 

232 The Burgomaster’s Wife. By' 

George Ebers 25 

233 The Emperor. By George Ebers 25 

234 In the Counsellor’s House, By 

E. Marlitt 25 

235 Only a Word. By George Ebers 25 

236 The Bailiff’s Maid. By E. Mar- 

litt 25 

237 The Sisters. By George Ebers. 25 

238 The Countess Gisela. By E. 

Marlitt 25 

239 Robert Elsmere. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward. Special Edition. 50 

240 The Elect Lady. By George 

Macdonald 25 

241 Eve. By S. Baring-Gould 25 

242 Diana Barrington. B. M. Croker 25 

243 Booties’ Children, and Princess 

Sarah. John Strange Winter 25 

244 The Story of an African Farm. 

Ralph Iron (Olive Schreiner) 25 

245 Under-Currents. By“The 

Duchess.” 25 

246 Gentleman and Courtier. By 

Florence Marryat ... 25 

247 Cousin Pons. By Honor6 De 

1^H>IZ3/C 25 

248 The Flying Dutchman : or, The 

Death Ship. W. Clark Russell 25 

249 The Owl-House. By E. Marlitt 25 

250 In Far Lochaber. By William 


Black 25 

251 Our New Mistress. By Char- 

lotte M. Yonge 25 

252 Aunt Diana. By Rosa Nou- 

chette Carey 25 

353 The Princess of the Moor. By 
E. Marlitt 25 

254 Colonel Quaritch, V. C. By H, 

Rider Haggard 25 

255 Prince Charming. By the Au- 

thor of “ A Great Mistake ” . . 25 

256 The Inner House. By Walter 

Besant 25 

257 Miss Bretherton. By Mrs. Hum- 

phry Ward, author of “ Robert 
Elsmere ” 25 

258 My Fellow Laborer. By H. Rid- 

er Haggard 25 

259 Donovan; A Modern English- 

man. By Edna Lyall 25 

260 Knight-Errant. By Edna Lyall. 25 

261 Rhoda Fleming. By George 

Meredith 25 


PRICK. 


The Countess Eve. By J, H. 

Shorthouse 25 

From the Earth to the Moon. 

By Jules Verne. Illustrated.. 25 
Round the Moon. By Jules 

Verne. Illustrated 25 

A Witch of the Hills. By Flor- 

, ence Warden 25 

A Judgment of God, By E, 
Werner 25 

For Faith and Freedom. By Wal- 
ter Besant 25 

A Two Years’ Vacation. By 

Jules Verne. Illustrated 26 

Lord Elesmere’s Wife. By 

Charlotte M. Braeme 25 

Lured Away ; or. The Story of 
a Wedding-Ring, and The 
Heiress of Arne. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 25 

The Egoist. By George Mere- 
dith 25 

Rienzi, the Last of the Tribunes. 

By Sir E. Bulwer Lytton 25 

Mr. Fortescue. An Andean Ro- 
mance. By William Westall. 25 

We Two. By Edna Lyall 25 

The Phantom City. By William 

Westall 25 

The Weaker Vessel. By David 

Christie Murray 25 

India and Her Neighbors. By 

W. P, Andrew 25 

Won by Waiting. By Edna 
Lyall 25 

Guilderoy. By “ Ouida ” 25 

The Polish Princess. By I, I, 

Kraszewski 25 

A Tale of an Old Castle. By W. 

Heimburg 25 

Lord Lynne’s Choice. By Char- 
lotte M. Braeme 25 

The New Magdalen. By Wilkie 

Collins 25 

The Mill on the Floss, By George 

Eliot 25 

Madolin’s Lover. By Charlotte 

M. Braeme 25 

The Wooing O’t, By Mrs. Alex- 
ander 35 

Ivanhoe, By Sir Walter Scott, 

Bart 25 

Very Hard Cash. By Charles 

Reade 25 

The Clique of Gold. By Emile 

Gaboriau 25 

Romola. By George Eliot 25 

Lorna Doone. By R. D. Black- 

more. Special Edition 50 

The Executor. By Mrs. Alex 

ander 25 

Put Yourself in His Place, By 

Charles Reade 25 

Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 25 
Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 25 
Vanity Fair. By William M 
Thackeray. Special Edition 5(1 


NO. 

262 

263 

264 

265 

266 

267 

268 

269 

270 

271 

272 

273 

274 

275 

276 

277 

278 

279 

280 

281 

282 

283 

284 

285 

286 

287 

288 

289 

290 

291 

292 

293 

294 

295 

296 


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294 Vixen. By Miss M. E. Braddon. 25 

295 Foul Play. By Charles Reade. 25 

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- 4 ^ 


ROLAND OLIVER. 




V' 

JUSTIN H. McCarthy, m. p. 


NEW YORK: 

GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, 

17 TO 37 Vandewater Street, 


JUSTIN H. McCAETHY^S WOEKS 


CONTAINED IN THE SEASIDE LIBRARY ^POCKET EDITION): 


121 Maid of Athens. 

602 Camiola. 

685 England Under Gladstone. 
1880—1885. 


NO. 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Ed- 
ited by Justin H. McCar- 
thy, M. P. 

779 Doom! An Atlantic Episode 
1233 Eoland Oliver. 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


OHAPTEE I. 

THE HOUSE IN AGAK STKEET. 

Eoland Oliver" had come back to London to settle 
there. He had made tip his mind that it was time for 
him to do something; and he had a feeling that it was 
about time for him to begin to enjoy life. He had had a 
good deal of trouble so far. 

Perhaps it may be as well to explain how he came by 
such an odd conjunction of names as Eoland Oliver. His 
father’s name was Oliver; so there is no explanation need- 
ed about that. But his mother was a generous and highly 
romantic woman, and when her boy was born she resolved 
that he should be called Eoland, and thus sent forth into 
the world, published in advance as a hero and one of Nat- 
ure’s nobility, by the fact that he bore the names of the 
two great Paladins — Eoland and Oliver — who are set off in 
common proverb one against the other. She was always 
impressing him with the not unfamiliar truth that life is a 
battle, and that it behooves all true men to acquit them- 
selves like heroes. Perhaps it need hardly be said that she 
was a devotee of Longfellow. Her son, she declared, would 
never prove unworthy of the heroic names he bore; and 
she held to it that there could be Eolands and Olivers in 


6 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


the most commonplace ways of life. The boy used to 
smile sometimes at her enthusiasm, but he liked it all the 
same; and his mind often went back to those dear talks 
with his mother — went back in tenderness and sorrow, for 
she died when he was only twelve years old. 

Many years had passed since that first grief of his life. 
He was now in his thirtieth year; he was not particularly 
handsome, but he had an expressive face and was well set 
up; the sort of young man whose clothes naturally fit 
him. He was apparently making binlself very comfort- 
able in London. He had taken a very charming set of 
rooms in one of the streets out of Park Lane, and had 
been at some expense to have them furnished and decorat- 
ed to please himself. He had reconciled the landlady of 
the house, a good-natured, active body, who had been a 
lady^s-maid in her time, to his theories of domestic art and 
the implied disparagement of her theories, and her chim- 
ney-ornaments, and her table-covers, by the promise that 
whenever he left the lodgings the property ■should be hers 
free of all charge. 

He let himself in with his latch-key one evening in the 
spring-time and found his lamp lighted, his fire burning 
cheerily, and the whole place seeming, as it were, to be 
giving him a cordial welcome and inviting him to sit down 
and make himself quite at home. A letter on a salver was 
lying conspicuously on the table; he took it up and looked 
at it with hardly half-awakened interest. Perhaps the in- 
terest began to get a little more than half awakened when 
he saw that the address was in a woman^s handwriting. 
Of late he had had very few acquaintances among women 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


7 


in London. He had been away so long; he had not been 
home long enough to have renewed many of his former 
acquaintanceships. He opened the letter and read: 

“ You don’t know me — perhaps you never heard of me; 
but I am the wife of an old school-fellow of yours, whom 
since that time you always called your friend — I am told. 
I am the wife of Laurence Caledon. He is very sick, and 
we are miserably poor — only because he is sick and can do 
nothing. Will you come and see him? He does not know 
that I am writing this; he would be too proud to let me do 
so if he knew it. Besides, he has said often that when 
people are rich, like you, they hate to be appealed to by 
old friends who are poor. Is this true of you? 1 don’t 
know. At all events, I give you the chance of proving 
yourself better than others in your position. ” 

The letter was signed, “Mary Caledon.” Then there 
was a not unimportant postscript: 

“ I was near forgetting to tell you that we live in a 
couple of little rooms at the top of Ho. 27 Agar Street, 
Strand; a trying ascent even for friendship; another ex- 
cuse for you not to come.” 

Laurence Caledon! His old friend! Yes, indeed; they 
had been friends for years. Their fathers had been 
friends. It was only a love trouble of Roland’s which had 
separated them. When Roland came back to his father, 
he learned that Laurence had got married and gone to live 
at Constantinople, where he was practicing as a barrister, 
and doing well, it seemed, at the International Court. 
Roland remembered feeling at the time a pang of some- 
thing like envy because of the married happiness of his 


8 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


friend. He had heard that Laurence's wife was young, 
beautiful, and clever; but that she had very little money. 
After his father's death, he had tried to find Laurence in 
Constantinople; but Laurence and his wife were away 
somewhere, and so the matter dropped through. Eoland 
was always hoping to meet his old friend again, although 
he could not help thinking, with a little dash of bitternes^^ 
of his own, that his old friend, now that he was happily 
married and settled down, w^ould perhaps not care much 
about him. 

And this was what had come of it all! Laurence was in 
London, poor, broken down, perhaps in actual want. The 
letter from his wife — how bitter it was and distrustful! 
He could well excuse that; one of the many curses of pov- 
erty to those who have not been ulways poor is that it 
makes them so cruelly suspicious. Yet, while the tone of 
the lettei- rather repelled him, or at all events called for 
some mental excusings and explainings on his part, he 
could not but see that it did show some trust in him too, 
and that it did, as the writer said, give him a chance of 
proving that he was not the sort of man to turn from a 
friend who is down. 

It was now seven o'clock. Roland had proposed to 
dress, to dine at his club, and to look into a theater. He 
thought no more of the dinner or the theater, but got into 
a hansom and started in quest of his old friend. Night 
was darkening down when he reached Agar Street in the 
Strand. 

Agar Street is not a lively or a picturesque or an inter- 
esting thoroughfare. It gives one at first the notion that 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


9 


it is a street presenting only blind sides to the eye of the 
wayfarer. It seems out of the question to think of any- 
body living in such a place; to associate it with the 
thought of household fires, and cozy hearths, and the prat- 
tle of children^’s voices. The yellow walls and pillars of a 
hospital stretch along one whole side of the street; and 
although no institution devoted to man^s benefit can be 
more useful than a hospital yet the sight of one of these 
structures does not, as a rule, tend to brighten a neighbor- 
hood. The other side of the little street was composed of 
tall, gaunt houses, the lower floors of which were given up 
to organizations of various kinds — a district school board 
office, a private inquiry office, various offices of limited 
liability companies, an agricultural newspaper office, one 
or two dismal shops and forlorn coffee-houses. 

Roland wandered up and down the street for awhile, 
trying in the semi-darkness to find out the particular num- 
ber of which he was in quest. He thought he had never 
seen a more dreary region. A man in robust health might 
be excused if his spirits were to give way under the mere 
pressure of having to inhabit such a thoroughfare. But 
only fancy being a poverty-stricken invalid there! In 
truth Roland could not see any signs of life in any of the 
houses, except the two or three small shops and windows 
of the hospital. The other tenements seemed to be places 
where business of some kind was transacted in the day, 
and which, after business hours, were left to the darkness, 
the rats, the black beetles, and the ghosts. 

At last Roland found the house. Its lower floor was 
occupied by a society for the diffusion of something; and 


10 


BOLAND OLIVEK. 


there were bell-handles rising one above another, cor- 
responding with and symbolical of the several flights and 
floors. Some of the bell-handles had names inscribed be- 
neath; the uppermost one bore no name. About to touch 
this uppermost bell, he stopped for a moment and let the 
past come back upon him. 

Roland Oliver was 

“ Lord of himself— that heritage of woe,” 

as Byron says. He had no relations — at all events no near 
relations — living. His father had been in trade; had 
owned a large West End establishment, with the privilege, 
blazoned on the outside, of proclaiming himself a servant 
of the royal family. The father, who had but the one 
child, especially desired him to turn out a gentleman, and 
was strong and severe on the subject of rank and respecta- 
bility. A Spanish grandee of old Castile could not have 
been more entirely filled with contempt for his humble fel- 
low-creatures. His theories had been dinned into the 
young man^s head with the natural effect of making him a 
theoretical leveler of all class distinctions. The elder 
generation never seems quite to know how to manage the 
younger. The natural inclination of the younger set — of 
all of us when we were younger — is to get into antagonism 
with the accepted principles and theories which are 
preached at us by our too- wise and self -asserting parents. 
The elder man in this story ought to have preached to the 
younger nothing but the brotherhood of man and the base- 
ness of earthly dignities and class distinctions; then he 
might have quietly carried his point. He did not adopt 


1 


ROLAND OLIVER. 11 

such a plan, however, and he failed; and his son fell in 
love with the daughter of a music-master who lived in 
Clapham. Roland told his father of his love, and the 
father stormed at him; the lover would not give way, and 
so the angry parent turned him out-of-doors. 

The young man^s pride and love sustained him. He 
told all to his love, and told her he was determined to go 
out and conquer the world for her; in other words, make a 
fortune for her. They could not marry while he had noth- 
ing and she had nothing; but give up each other they would 
not. So Roland turned into money some of the few valuables 
left him by his mother, and started out for the diamond 
mines of South Africa. Miss Lydia Palmer, his sweet- 
heart, gave him as they were parting, not merely a lock of 
her dark-brown hair, but an interwoven armlet or bangle 
of it, which he was always to wear for her sake, and which 
was to be a sort of amulet for his constancy and his per- 
sonal safety. 

He did not begin to make much of a fortune. If the 
luck was not dead against him yet it did not do much for 
him. He went on striving and straining. He had a cer- 
tain capacity for inventing, and he turned out various in- 
ventions meant to be useful in mining work. But the in- 
ventions only returned, as Macbeth says, to plague the 
inventor. A whole year went over in this way, until one 
day the European mail brought him out two letters, each 
of which had some effect upon his life. One was from his 
softened and repentant father, full of affection, beseeching 
him to come home and marry whom he pleased, and bring 
her to live in the paternal home, and adding that the 


13 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


health of the writer had been but poor of late. The other 
was from his sweetheart, quietly telling him that she was 
not his sweetheart any more; that she was sure their en- 
gagement was a sin, because it was opposed to the wishes 
of both their parents — which was news to Eoland, so far as 
her parent was concerned — and that therefore it must be 
considered as broken off; and that she would trouble him 
to return her the armlet of dark-brown hair. The mean- 
ing of this, as he soon after learned, was that the incon- 
stant Lydia had grown tired of waiting, had lost faith in 
his conquering the world for her, and had been asked by a 
clever young lawyer to honor him with her hand. Before 
Eoland got back to England she was married; and oh, 
what a pang of remorse went through her sensitive heart 
when she learned that her rejected lover was taken back to 
his father’s house, and was to be his father’s heir, and 
that if she had only waited she would have shared the in- 
heritance! 

This was three years before the opening of the story we 
have to tell. The father died within a year. He had sold 
off his business and his establishment, and when dying left 
his son a considerable fortune. The young man found 
himself not indeed rich in the vast sense of present-day 
fortunes, but with enough to give to a bachelor a life of 
luxury, if he cared about it, and to enable him, if he chose 
to marry, to offer to his wife a nice house in the West 
End, a brougham, a victoria, and a horse to ride in the 
Eow. 

Eoland was very sorry for his father; his mind was filled 
with contrition, although he had really done nothing which 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


13 


called for contriteness. He and the elder man had lived 
a verj' happy season together before the father died; and 
the young man^s heart was wounded sorely at the time, 
and kindness touched him. After his father^s death, he 
went abroad, and wandered about a good deal, just going 
whither chance or caprice might take him. During his 
wanderings and his lonely thinkings he found a great 
change had come over him. He had turned from a boy 
into a man. 

At last he made up his mind to go home — that is to say 
to go back to England, for it was not now much of a home 
to him. But he began to think that it was time he should 
now turn to and do some work in the world. He was not 
quite clear what the work was to be, but he said to him- 
self: “ I have a good deal of money; I have had an educa- 
tion; I have picked up a pretty fair share of experience in 
various ways; I have read many books, and I know a lot 
of things that can not be learned from books; I have 
suffered not a little, and there ought to be some way in 
which 1 could be of service in the world. His heart was 
much humbled and softened. He had quite recovered 
from the hurt that had been given him by his false true- 
love — whom he had only loved because at the time he had 
to love somebody; but he was not in the least inclined to 
try another chance of love-making. He did not care much 
for the society of women; as he chanced to find them they 
seemed either too young to be interesting or not quite 
young enough to be idolized. On the whole it must be 
owned that when he returned to London he was by no 
means an unhappy young man; such sorrow as he had had 


14 


BOLAND OLIVER. 


was now a source of sweetness and not of bitterness to his 
heart. After the first few days in London he began to 
find life very interesting. The only acquaintances he had 
in the metropolis were people he had met when traveling; 
some of them were well worth knowing, and gave him a 
cordial welcome. It was the spring-time of the year, and 
spring-time was in the breast of the young man. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE OLD FRIEND AND THE NEW. 

Roland rang the uppermost bell and the door was pres- 
ently opened by a pretty little servant-girl, who seemed 
almost amazed at the sight of any visitor. She told him 
that Mr. Caledon was at home, and volunteered the addi- 
tional information that Mr. Caledon never went out. 
Then she took his card and showed him the way up flights 
and flights of narrow, creaking, crumbling stairs, and at 
last led him into a tiny passage, so small that there was 
some difficulty in managing to close the door behind him. 
Certainly the place had not been arranged, even in the 
original plan of its architect, for the reception of many 
visitors. 

There would seem to be some other difficulty also about 
his admission. Roland was allowed to remain quite a long 
time in the narrow passage. Only one of the mysteries 
of poverty, thought he to himself. “ My poor friend^s 
surroundings are such as he is unwilling to show to outer 
eyes; he and his wife and the servant are no doubt making 
some hasty touches of improvement here and there. If he 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


15 


only l^new how little need there was for ceremonial with 
meP^i 

Then a door opened and the little serving-maid invited 
him to come in. 

When he entered he certainly was surprised; he saw 
himself in a tiny sitting-room, most tastefully and even 
elegantly furnished and decorated. It was very small in- 
deed, but nothing could have been prettier than its get-up 
and its general arrangements. The walls were done in 
delicate distemper; the ceiling carried out the tone and 
idea of the walls; the furniture was all white; the mirror 
over the chimney-piece was draped in soft white; a carpet 
of delicate, noiseless felt was on the floor; the portieres 
were in perfect harmony, both in color and material, with 
the carpet and the furniture, just striking a middle and 
blending note between the pearl-white and the soft green- 
ish-gray; a few etchings in frames were on the walls. It 
was altogether a sort of hijou room. This did not look 
very like utter poverty. Nor could he suppose that this 
was but the wreck of former elegance, the remains of bet- 
ter days, for the whole get-up was evidently new. 
“ Laurence^s wife is vain and silly, he at once charitably 
assumed, “ and has either spent all they had left or run 
into debt to keep pretty things about her. 

One of the curtains was withdrawn, and- Laurence Cale- 
don limped or dragged himself slowly, heavily, feebly into 
the room, leaning on the shoulder of the little serving- 
maiden. He stopped for a moment, and gazed into Ro- 
land ^s face. 

Meanwhile Roland had a chance of surveying his old 


16 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


friend. The old friend had changed indeed. He had been 
handsome and shapely, and vain of his face and his form. 
His form was now bent and shrunken, the shoulders 
bowed, the chest sunken. His face was miserably thin 
and pale; his eyes had too much luster in them. What 
was his age? About thirty. He might have been fifty, 
and a very ill-preserved fifty. The shock of seeing him 
thus changed made Koland silent for a moment. Then he 
recovered himself, and seized Caledon^s white, emaciated 
hand. 

“ Dear old chap,'’^ he exclaimed with a fervor which was 
all unfeigned, “ I am so glad to see you.^^ 

Laurence smiled a rather constrained smile. 

“ Glad to see me like this?’’ he asked. 

“Oh, come, now, you know what I must feel about 
that; only 1 am glad to be able to come and see you, and 
talk to you, and hear all about you, and see what can be 
done to make things cheerful. I am so much alone in 
London myself that 1 am beginning to hate solitude, and* 
1 don’t know what I should have done if I had not heard 
that you were here. ” 

“lam glad to see you — really glad,” the sick man said, 
his face brightening a little. “Sit down, old friend.” 
Laurence himself lounged feebly on to a sofa. “ That will 
do, Annie. Now, please, go and say to Mrs. Caledon 
that she may come in. You only know my wife as a cor- 
respondent, 1 think?” 

“ Only as a correspondent. It was so kind of her.” 

“ I didn’t know anything about it; she only told me 
just this moment — when you came.” 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


17 


“ My dear fellow, you don’t really mean to say that you 
were going to remain in London all the time, and never 
let me know? Don’t you know that I hunted you up in 
Constantinople for days and days?” 

“ Constantinople! Oh, I dread to think of those days; 
such a contrast to these! Ah, yes; everything looked 
bright and smiling then. 1 beg your pardon, Eoland, but 
I almost wish you hadn’t mentioned Constantinople. ‘ A 
sorrow’s crown of sorrow,’ don’t you know, Tennyson 
says, ‘ is remembering happier things.’ ” 

“Poor fellow!” Eoland pityingly thought; “ how mor- 
bid his illness has made him. One will have to be pretty 
careful what one is saying. There’s one subject choked 
off, to begin with; and I was very anxious to know how 
they were getting on in Constantinople, and what made 
them leave it, and how he came to be so much of an in- 
valid. Well, it is not a question of gratifying my curios- 
ity, but a question of how to do some good for him.” 

“ All right, Laurence,” he said; “1 am sorry I said 
anything. I am awfully stupid about things — ” 

“ No, no, my dear friend; but I am absurdly sensitive. 
You shall hear all about it; you shall know my whole 
story. My wife will tell you; it will please her to talk 
about it; she has none of my foolish sensibility. See, 
here she is. Mary, this is my old friend, your new cor- 
respondent, Mr. Oliver.” 

Eoland rose, of course, but he did not go forward and 
offer his hand; something made him leave to her the de- 
finition of the sort of terms on which they were to meet. 
He had a quick eye; he studied her at a glance, and took 


18 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


in every point. The impression she gave him on entering 
the room 'was that the room was too small for her. Yet 
she was not much more than common tall; no one would 
speak of her as a tall woman. Nor was she of Juno-like 
proportions; she was rather slender, but very finely 
formed; short in waist, with length of limb. She had the 
bust of a Greek statue. Her face was singularly delicate 
in its mold, with a complexion exquisitely pale; fair is not 
the word to describe it. As she entered, a slight pink 
flush came up, as it seemed, behind the pale curtain of the 
skin, and gave something of the effect of a rosy light in- 
side an alabaster lamp. In short, Mrs. Caledon was a 
very striking woman to look at; decidedly what one would 
call queenly, but with the melancholy dignity of a dis- 
crowned queen. It was this appearance that impressed 
our hero at first with the idea that she seemed out of pro- 
portion with the tiny sitting-room. 

Mrs. Caledon bowed, and hardly smiled; but there was 
certainly a welcome on her face, which made his position 
easier for the visitor. 

“ 1 knew you would come,^^ she said in a voice that was 
low and soft, but so sweet and clear that every word float- 
ed to the listener's ear. 

% 

“ Of course I would come; but how did you know it?^^ 

I canT tell; but I felt certain. My husband has told 
me so often about you. 

“ Well, the great thing is that we have got him here,^^ 
Laurence said, with a resolute effort to be cheerful; “ and 
it does not much matter, Mary, whether we knew he 
would come or not. We want to hear all about him, and 


BOLAND OLIVEE. 


19 


what he has been doing, and what he is going to do. I 
don^t suppose he will much care to hear about our private 
meditations.^^ 

“ But 1 want to hear all about you.^^ 

‘ ‘ She ^11 tell you all, you may be sure. But now this is 
our first meeting for ever so long, let us talk of cheerful 
things. How do you like London again 

‘‘ Oh, I am in love with it! 1 can’t get half enough 
of it.” 

“ No?” Laurence asked, with a sigh. “ Well, I used 
to feel like that once, when we were out there.” He 
jerked his head as if to indicate that somewhere just be- 
hind him stood the Constantinople of which he did not 
care to name the name. “ I used to think it would be de- 
lightful to knock about London once again. But here I 
am in London, and what have I to do with London? I 
might as well be a thousand miles away. I* never go out; 
I never see anything of London but the walls of the house 
over the way, and not even these lively objects very 
often.” 

But why don’t you get out? It must be awfully bad 
for you, living forever between these four walls.” 

“ Of course, I know it’s bad for me; of course, 1 know 
it is killing me. But what can I do? I can’t walk; I am 
-too weak and crippled; and my means don’t precisely 
allow me to keep a carriage. ” 

“ But, my dear boy, there are such things as hansom 
cabs.” 

I detest hansom cabs; 1 detest the rattle, and the 
trouble of getting in and out, and the trying to make the 


20 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


driver hear through a hole in the roof. Oh, no, no; I 
hate hansom cabs, and, of course, one couldn't stand a 
growler; and so I find it better, after all, to stay in-doors. 
Perhaps it won’t be for very long,” he added, significantly. 

Poland glanced involuntarily at Mrs. Caledon when 
Laurence had said this. She got up as if to look for 
something, and disappeared behind the curtain. 

“ Come, now, Laurence, you said, I thought, we were 
not to talk of any but cheerful things to-day. One thing 
only 1 want to say, now that your wife isn’t here — you 
know, it must be very bad for her to be always within 
doors; she does not seem to me to be in good health by 
any means.” 

“ The great thing,” Roland said in his own mind, “ is 
to withdraw poor Laurence’s, attention from himself by 
giving him an alarm about his wife. 1 am sure his malady 
increases by his constantly dwelling upon it and upon his 
own general condition. It would be better even to startle 
him, by telling him frankly that his wife seems out of 
health and needs looking after as well as he.” 

“ She not in good health? Oh, yes; she’s all right 
enough. She always looks a little pale — just like that — 
but she’s quite well. And she can go out as much as she 
likes — of course she can.” 

“ But I dare say she doesn’t like to leave you here 
alone.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind being left alone; 1 rather like it 
sometimes. I wouldn’t for anything keep her in if she 
wanted to get about. 1 know how egotistic invalids gen- 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


21 


erally are, and I always do my best not to think of my- 
self. 

“ Does not the doctor tell you that you ought to go 
oat?’’ 

“ Doctor? Oh, I haven^t any doctor. 

“No doctor? Good gracious! why don’t you have 
one?” 

“ Well, any sort of a doctor worth sending for has to be 
paid so much. Two guineas for the first visit, and some 
of them expect two guineas for every following visit as 
well. No, my dear fellow, my finances don’t run to 
that.” 

Mrs. Caledon here came back into the room. 

“ Why don’t you make your husband have a doctor, 
Mrs. Caledon?” he asked her, bluntly. He was begin- 
ning to get angry with her. He set down the fittings and 
furniture of the room to her account, and he could not 
understand why she did not insist on taking care of her 
husband. She knew how unwell he was, for she had 
written it in her letter. 

I have tried often,*’ she said; “ but I can’t prevail on 
him. He will not think about himself; I can not get him 
to think about himself. That is why I wanted you, his 
old friend, to come and see him; at least that is one 
reason. If he were more of a selfish man he might have 
been well long ago.” 

‘‘ Please never mind about my good qualities and virtues 
and all that,” Laurence said, with a softer and more 
pleasing tone in his voice than it had yet given out. “ My 


22 


BOLAND OLIVEB. 


old friend here knows all about me, or if there is anything 
he doesn^t know he will soon find it out/^ 

“ Well, I shall take very different measures, I can tell 
you. I am going to ‘ boss this show,^ as the Americans 
say. You shall be looked after by a doctor — and that at 
once; and he shall be a pretty masterful one, too, who 
will have his way. And you shall drive out and enjoy the 
open air, and the days will be growing brighter and 
warmer every" week; and, I say, we^ll go and see things, 
sha^n’t we? I am so glad to have found you, for I was so 
desolate; and now, old chap, we^ll have a good time.’^ 
There was something positively contagious about the 
cheerfulness and the friendly sympathetic sincerity of the 
young man. It was like the first ray of sunlight, the first 
breath of the west wind, coming into a room that had long 
been closed and darkened. Laurence’s sad and meager 
face actually broke into smiles. Koland gave one glance 
at Mrs. Caledon and then turned quickly away. Her eyes 
were filled with tears. “ Come,” Roland thought, “I’ve 
found something to do at last. For the present my busi- 
ness in life is to brighten this home; and I’ll do it, and I 
am prepared to give long odds tfiat 1 get him back into 
good health again. ” 

Laurence meanwhile stretched out his hand. 

“Your hand, old boy,” he said; “I see you are the 
same dear old boy as ever. Yes, I think it would be niece 
to go out again a bit; I think it would do me good.” 

“ Why, of course it would do you good, and it shall do 
you good, so we needn’t talk about that any more. But 
look here, do you know that it is eight o’clock, and 1 


KOLAND OLIVER. 


33 


haven'^t had any dinner, and Fm getting awfully hungry? 
You haven^t dined either, I dare say?’’ 

“ Well, we only have a very small dinner, you know, 
just an invalid^s dinner, a cup of tea and a little bit of fish 
or fowl or something; nothing to give you.” 

“ No, indeed, you are right there; I have a very sturdy 
appetite. I suppose there would not be any use in asking 
you and Mrs. Caledon to come out and dine somewhere 
with me?” 

Laurence looked up eagerly as if he weFe about to accept 
the offer, but Mrs. Caledon quietly interposed. 

‘‘ Oh, no — please don^t ask us; the night-air would not 
be good for him — I mean it would not be good for him to 
begin his goings out at night. Don’t you think so, Lau- 
rence, dearest?” 

“ Oh, yes, I suppose so,” he replied, languidly, and let 
himself fall back into his chair again. 

“ Of course you are quite right, and it was stupid of me 
to think of such a thing. Well, here is what I propose to 
do; I’ll run out to the nearest restaurant that is good — I 
know all the places about here — and I’ll tell them to send 
us in a nice little dinner, and, if you don’t mind, we’ll all 
dine together here. ” 

“ Capital idea,” Laurence declared, brightening up 
again. 

“Oh, I am delighted!” Mary Caledon said; and the 
pleasurable thought brought the pink flush into the ala- 
baster again. 

Roland glanced quietly at her while rising to start on his 


24 : 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


mission, and he saw that she was gladdened because her 
husband was glad. 

“ I can^t quite make out about these furnitures and fix- 
ings/’ he said to himself. “ If 1 know anything of hu- 
man faces and of human nature, that’s a true and unself- 
ish woman.” 

“Now then,” he said aloud, “ I sha’n’t be long.” He 
took up his hat. 

“ Why need you go?” Mrs. Caledon asked. “ Can we 
not send the maid? Why put you to the task of going up 
and down these stairs?” 

“ But, my dear lady ” — his awe of her was wearing off 
— “ you don’t imagine that she would understand how to 
order a dinner?” 

“ I never thought about that,” she said, with a positive 
smile. 

Then he stumbled down the stairs as fast as he could, 
sometimes taking, in his energy, three steps at a time. 

Eoland presently returned, and was quickly followed by 
a waiter bearing a tray whereon were the component parts 
of a very nice little dinner, with oysters, and olives, and 
champagne. The table was soon spread, and they had a 
very social little meal. Laurence was made quite bright 
for the moment, and Eoland exerted himself to keep the 
talk going. It used to give him especial pleasure when he 
could see a smile steal over the pale and thoughtful face 
of Mrs. Caledon. He fancied he could see that there was 
in her much capacity for enjoyment, and that she had by 
nature that most beneficent of gifts, the faculty of finding 
enjoyment in trifling things. Now it was evident that she 


ilOLAND OLIVER. 


^5 


was pleased because her husband was pleased. They 
talked until it was getting late, and Eoland became afraid 
of keeping his invalid friend up too long. So they were to 
part for the night, and Eoland did not say anything to 
Laurence about coming next day, taking it for granted 
that his coming would be assumed as a matter of course. 
He had not yet made any inquiry into the conditions of 
their life; that would come gradually and later on. 

“You had better hold a lamp for him on the passage, 
Mary,^^ Laurence said, “or he may break his neck down 
these dreadful flights of stairs.’^ 

“ Oh, never mind; 1 shall find my way all right. 

“ No, no; of course ITl hold the lamp for you.^’ 

As she was going to take a lamp off the table she came 
near her husband, who was lying back in his chair. With 
a sudden impulse of delight in his brightened condition, 
she put her hand affectionately and tenderly on his fore- 
head. Apparently his good-humor had evaporated; he 
put her hand quietly away, and said: 

“ I donT know why it is, Mary, but for so nice a wom- 
an your touch wants softness.'’^ 

“ You ungracious boy!^^ she said, good-humoredly, and 
then she took up her lamp. 

Eoland could not help hearing the words that passed in 
this little incident. When they came into the passage she 
closed the door behind them. 

“ My letter was not a nice one,^^ she said; “ you must 
have thought it very rude and offensive. 

“ Surely I could make allowance he replied, simply. 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


26 

“ I did not expect a woman under such conditions to tran- 
scribe from the ‘ Complete Letter- writer. ^ ” 

‘‘ No; it^s not that, but I wrote as if I didn^t believe you 
would come. 

“ Oh, no, Mrs. Caledon! Nothing of the kind; at least 
I didn^t read it so. You wrote as if you had pledged 
yourself in your own mind to the belief that I most cer- 
tainly would come. 

“ You read it that way?^^ she asked, eagerly, and with 
that same light and sudden flush, making the delicate ala- 
baster of her cheeks to glow for a short moment. 

“ I read it that wa}^ certainly. 

She gave a sigh of relief. 

“ Well, you were right, Mr. Oliver. My husband was 
always speaking of you — I mean in the old, happy days — 
with pride and affection. He was always telling me what 
good friends you were, and how you helped him in every- 
thing, and how clever and brilliant you were — 

“ Oh, come now, Mrs. Caledon!’^ 

“ Yes, he always said so; I didn^t know, of course. He 
said you could do anything — 

“ Yes; and 1 have done nothing, as you see.^^ 

“ You have time enough yet; I am sure he will prove to 
be right in the end. But 1 didn^t want to talk of that — 
“No, I should fancy not; you have something else to 
think of.^^ 

“ I have indeed. But I am so glad you did not misun- 
derstand me, or be offended with my letter. What I want 
to ask you is about my husband. Do you think he will 
get better? Oh, tell me the truth — I mean, tell me what 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


27 


you honestly think. Don^t be afraid; I can bear any- 
thing. And, you see, we have no children; and it is so 
easy to bear one^s own troubles when they concern nobody 
else. Tell me; do you think he is very ill?^’ 

“Well, I am not a doctor, although I have looked into 
medicine a little; but I should not think him anything 
worse than heavily out of sorts. But he will have the best 
advice the best doctors can give. I should rather say he 
was run down from overwork, or anxiety, or something of 
the kind. Is there any reason why you should be particu- 
larly alarmed for him? 1 mean, is there anything you 
know that the ordinary observer would not know?^^ 

“ No — there is nothing,^’ she said, with a certain hesita- 
tion. “ He is nervous and easily shaken, that is all. He 
was not so always, or, if he was, 1 did not know it. 

“ Well, then, 1 think you may be of perfectly good 
cheer; for, if there is not something to be known which I 
do not know, I believe he is safe to get well again. Any- 
how, as 1 told you, we will have the best advice that can 
be got. Now tell me — like a frank, sincere woman — what 
can I do for your husband?^^ 

“ What are you willing to do?^^ she asked, passionately. 
“ Anything that friendship can do. Let me speak like 
a plain, blunt Briton. I will do anything that friendship 
and money can do for him. I am rich enough to do any- 
thing that could possibly be needed for him, and I am 
ready to do it. I have gone through some suffering my- 
self — one of his weaknesses was to be a little vain of his 
personal share of suffering, which, after all, was not abso- 


28 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


lutely unique — “ and I am glad to give a helping hand to 
others. 

She stopped and thought. 

“ Oh, I don^t know/^ she exclaimed, with emotion. 
“It is so hard to manage; he is so proud and sensitive in 
man;^ ways. I am so anxious about him, I am in such 
misery about him — that I am afraid I would take any help 
that was offered. Oh, pray, don^t think too meanly of me 
if I have come to that; I would take money from you, if 
you offered it to me — and you would, yes, you would, I 
know it, you need not tell me — I would take it to buy 
comforts and rest for him. But if he knew he would be 
angry, and I couldn’t, even for his own sake, do anything 
that would make him angry.” 

“ But see, you thought he would be angry if you wrote 
to me, and he was not angry; he was glad.” 

“ Ah, yes; but that was different. He was glad to see 
you; glad that you came to see him; glad to hear your 
voice. It is so dull and monotonous and lonely for him 
here, with nobody to see all the day long. ” 

“ Nobody?” 

“ Nobody but me.” 

“ I should have thought that was an important excep- 
tion.” 

“ Oh, well; he sees so much of me. Sometimes,” she 
added, sadly, “ I could find it in my heart to wish he had 
never seen me. ” 

“ Come, Mrs. Caledon, how could he exist without 
you?” 

“ 1 think all his troubles came from his marriage. He 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


^9 


had to work so hard, and he was so fond of me and so 
proud of me — the pink color lighted under the alabaster 
again — “ and he would spend his money to make things 
nice about me, and then he worked too hard and he broke 
down. Why, you see, even now — even in this wretched 
place where he is prostrate — he would spend money in 
ornamenting and fitting up these rooms, to make them 
worthy of me, he said. As if I cared for anything of the 
kind while he is broken down and pining in sickness under 
my eyes! Well, I mustn^t stay too long away from him; 
but I will light you down one flight. He protests, but 
she would light him down one creaking flight of stairs. 

“ Now, you sha^n^t stay any longer. I am coming 
again to-morrow, and every day, and we shall have plenty 
of opportunity to think things over and come to some un- 
derstanding. Meanwhile, Mrs. Caledon, we are conspira- 
tors, you and I, in a grand Guy Fawkes scheme for the 
blowing away of all Laurence ^s ailments and for his res- 
toration to health, and work, and happiness. 

“We are, we are,^^ she exclaimed, triumphantly. 
“ But oh, how good you' are! I always knew, somehow, 
that you would be. You will come to-morrow?^^ 

“ To-morrow and all the to-morrows until our poor lad 
gets well.^^ 

“ Good-night, she said, and she gave him her hand. 

He noticed that her touch had in it something delight- 
fully soft and soothing, and he could not help recalling to 
his mind with wonder the manner in which Laurence had 
spoken of the sensation produced by the impress of her 
hand. She ran up the stairs, and he thought he could see 


30 


KOLAND OLIYER. 


that she had a freshened vitality and vigor in her move- 
ments. He was sure that this was due to the renewed 
hope which his appearance on the scene and his promised 
companionship had given her, and he felt sincerely pleased 
and happy. He had got something to live for now, he 
said to himself. If he could restore poor, broken Lau- 
rence and make him, once again, a successful and a happy 
worker, he should feel that he had done something; and 
he really did not see any reason why he should not be able 
to do that. Six months’ rest — complete rest — for the 
mind*from fears of utter poverty, would make Laurence 
all right again. Just now, poor fellow, he was so tor- 
mented with dread, lest his wife should be plunged into 
want, that her very presence was often a pain and a re- 
proach to him. ‘‘ Yes,” our hero said, “ I am sure I 
should be just like that if I were in the same condition. 
What stuff it is they talk about adversity being good for 
people! I am sure it is not good for him. Why, I re- 
member him such a different man.” So that even on this 
first visit Roland had got to the length of making mental 
admission of the fact that his old friend was, to all appear- 
ance, a different man from the man whom he thought he 
knew and was sure he loved in the dear old days, before 
either of them had fallen in love. “ After all, what a 
lucky fellow he is, with that woman so devoted to 
him!” 

There was new elasticity, fresh vigor in her as she ran 
upstairs. She was full of hope. Her husband had found 
his friend again, and all would now go well. She opened the 
door of the room where Laurence was lying on his sofa. 


# 


HOLAKD OLIYER. 31 

and she looked on him with beaming eyes* He returned 
her gaze with a sickly smile. 

“ Well/’ he said, “ we have seen the last of Mm.” 

Of him? Laurence! Seen the last of whom?’’ 

“ Why, of our wealthy and brilliant friend. Mark my 
words, he will never mount these stairs again; and I am 
sure 1 don’t wonder; I wouldn’t, if I were he. ” 

“ Laurence — my dear Laurence — how can you say such 
a thing of yourself or him? Why, my dear, he is coming 
to-morrow, and every day, he says, until you get well.” 

“ Did he say so, really?” And Laurence’s eye were 
lighted by a gleam of genuine gratification. 

“ Oh, yes; he is coming to see you every day. He says 
he and I are to be conspirators to take care of you; and he 
wants to do everything for you; and he is only afraid of 
doing too much, and perhaps hurting your pride.” 

“ Did he tell you that, really, Mary?” Laurence asked, 
eagerly, and rousing himself so far as to lean on one arm 
and look up. “ Well, I do believe he is really a regular 
good fellow. And so he was afraid I should be too proud 
to take any helping hand from him?” 

“ He was; that was the only thing that seemed to 
trouble his mind. Oh, Laurence, he comes like a Provi- 
dence.” 


I 

CHAPTER II 

TWO READINGS OF SHAKESPEARE. 

Next day Roland sent a West End physician of emi- 
nence in his profession to visit poor Caledon. He pro- 


32 


BOLAND OLIVEB. 


nounced him weak, rheumatic, and shaken generally, but 
with no organic disorder, and not in any danger; not by 
any means beyond hope of complete restoration to health. 
What the patient needed for the present was rest of body, 
peace of mind, and nourishing food. Open air, of course, 
was declared to be absolutely necessary. For the present 
there seemed no occasion to leave London; ther spring was 
pretty far advanced, and London in summer was as good a 
place as any. 

Early in the afternoon Roland came himself in an open 
carriage, and the three drove to Battersea Park. On the 
way Roland talked a great deal, and so, indeed, did Lau- 
rence, who had found reaction into positive high spirits. 
Mrs. Caledon sat silent for the most part; her heart was 
too full of hope and gladness to allow her to talk much. 
It seemed to her that Roland had come to them like a 
messenger from Providence indeed. She saw nothing but 
hope for their future; she felt that under such kindly and 
strong protection everything must come right with them; 
Laurence would recover, he would get strong, he would be 
able to take to his work again, they would have a happy 
home once more. Perhaps Mr. Oliver would soon get 
married, and they would all be such friends — the two hus- 
bands, the two wives. She had some faint idea that he 
had had a disappointment in love already; her husband 
had told her something about it. But he would get over 
that; probably had already got over it, she thought. 

Thinking of these things, her heart full of these 
thoughts, she lay back in the carriage and sunk into a de- 
licious torpor of hope and happiness. How the whole at- 


ROLAKD OLIVER. 


33 


mosphere of their lives had changed since the day before! 
What a different being her husband seemed already! His 
irritability and his way of tormenting himself only came 
from nervous depression and from loneliness. The doctor 
had said there was nothing wrong with him which could 
not be put right by care and time; and now he would be 
cared for, and need not afflict his mind any more. She 
could not help gliding her hand into her husband's as if to 
assure herself of his nearness. Another time — yesterday, 
perhaps — he would probably have drawn his hand away, 
and told her he did not care for demonstrativeness; but 
now he allowed it to rest within his own, and he smiled 
good-humore lly at her. The soft breath of the west wind 
was a delight and a luxury to her; she felt like a happy 
child again. 

“ I so love this west wind," she murmured; “it seems 
to have all youth in it." 

“ Yes," Roland said; “ it affects one in a sort of poetic 
way sometimes, does it not? One fancies it ought to 
bring tears to the eyes of sensitive people." 

Looking at her, he was sorry he had said this, for he 
saw that there were unmistakable tears in her eyes. 

She knew that he had seen her eyes all moistened, and 
she only said simply: 

“ Yes; but it was not the west wind that brought the 
tears into my eyes, Mr. Oliver; I am afraid I am not 
poetic enough for that. My tears just now are because 
everything seems so happy." 

“ I don't think that is quite a satisfactory way of show- 


34 


ROLAND OLIYER. 


ing one^s happiness/^ Laurence said, almost sharply; and 
he took his hand away from hers. 

“ One can^t help it,’^ she said. “ Mr. Oliver won^t 
Jaugh at me, I am sure; and if he does I can’t help that.’' 

“ Oh, no, indeed, I sha’n’t laugh,” Oliver said, seeing 
nothing whatever to laugh at. 

They were driving through Battersea Park. Roland 
stopped the carriage within sight of a pretty little pool. 

“ I should like to get out, and go near to the water, and 
look at the wild-fowl, and walk a little,” Mrs. Caledon 
said. “ Wouldn’t you like to get out and walk a little, 
Laurence? It would do you good.” 

“No; you know I am not strong enough for much 
walking,” her husband said. “ But you get out, Mary; 
Mr. Oliver will walk a little with you. I shall sit here 
and study the wild-fowl from this commanding point of 
view. ” 

Oliver had already got out, and he helped her to alight; 
at least, he offered her his hand, but she leaped lightly 
down without having touched it. 

They went near to the pool, and then stood and’ looked 
at the brown water. The trees which were mirrored in 
the jDOol were leafless yet; the colors were all soft grays 
and browns. The water-fowl plashed and made noisy 
demonstrations here and there. The prattle and the 
laughter of children were heard. Mary felt her heart 
bound with a seijse of sudden freedom and fresh delight. 
It seemed as if youth had at that moment come back to 
her. 

“ Are you fond of walking, Mrs. Caledon?” Roland 


ROLAl^D OLIVER. 


35 


asked, for the sake of saying something. He had not 
talked to her much as yet, and he could not rattle on with 
her as he could with her husband. 

‘‘Yes, very. At least I used to be very fond of dt; but 
lately I don^t walk at all. And, as you know, one 
couldn^’t walk much in Constantinople; there’s no place to 
walk.” 

“ Hid you like Constantinople?” He was glad to find 
that she at least had no objection to hearing the name of 
the city. 

“ I liked it very much at first; everything was so novel, 
and the waters are so beautiful. But I did not like it so 
much lately. ” 

“ Laurence did not like it, 1 suppose?” 

“ Oh, yes; he liked it very much.” 

“ But he doesn’t like to hear it spoken of. ” 

“ No; he has a strong objection to being reminded of it. 
It will be better, I think, not to say anything about it to 
him.” 

She was looking down while she said this, and her man- 
ner seemed a little constrained. 

“ I shall take care,” Oliver said. “lam very glad to 
be warned.” 

“As he gets stronger he won’t mind things so much,” 
she said. 

“ He will soon get stronger.” 

“ Thanks to you. I have said to him that you come to 
us like a Providence, Mr. Oliver. ” 

“ Who on earth wouldn’t try to help an old friend?” 

“You don’t seem to me like a young London man,” 


36 


ROLANI) OLIVER. 


she said. They were walking slowly by the margin of the 
lake. 

“ Don^t I? Well, I haven^t been much in London these 
late years. But tell me, why do I seem to you not like a 
London man?^^ 

“ Because you are not cynical. I have been hearing you 
talk a good deal yesterday and to-day, and I have not 
heard you say one cynical thing. 

He stopped for a moment as if thinking the thing out, 
and then said : 

‘‘ Well, it is not from any set purpose not to be cynical; 
but somehow' things don’t impress me in that way. I 
think there is ever so much good all around us if we would 
only look at it, and not squint away from it. But I don’t 
mean to go preaching philosophy. I dare say it is very 
much a matter of temperament or of condition whether a 
man is cynical or not. Do you know that there are two 
lines of Shakespeare which impress me more than all the 
cynicism in the world?” 

‘‘Yes! What are they? We are reading Shakespeare 
now, at nights. I read to Laurence. Tell me the lines.” 

Don’t you remember what Brutus says when he is 
dying? 

‘ My heart doth joy that yet in all my life, 

I found no man but he was true to me.’ ” 

“ Oh, yes; so noble, so magnanimous, the very words 
for a hero to die with,” she spoke with positive enthusi- 
asm. 

“Yes; that is what I have always felt. But I want to 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


37 


ask you one or two things about yourselves before we go 
back to Laurence. 

“ I shall be very glad. Laurence knows that I am to 
tell you something about ourselves, anything you care to 
know. He is nervous and sensitive himself, poor boy, 
especially so now that he is ill. But you can talk to me; 
I know you mean to befriend us, and I for one am only 
too willing to be befriended by you if only it can be done.^^ 

Then Roland asked her a few questions which she readily 
answered. They had come back from Constantinople with 
very little money. Laurence hoped to do something at the 
bar and to write for law journals. He had spent far too 
much money on fitting up their little fiat, “ done to please 
me, as he thought.'’^ All the money they now had in the 
world was just one hundred a year — which, being pressed, 
she hurriedly said was hers — the remains of what had been 
left her by her mother. 

“ I think it was a pity Laurence ever left Constantino- 
ple,^^ Roland said. But she did not allow him to get any 
further. 

“ Oh, no, no! It was much better for us to leave Con- 
stantinople. That was my doing; it had to be done; it 
was ever so much better. But I would rather not talk 
about Constantinople; he would not like me to talk about 
all that, even to you. 

“ Very well, Mrs. Caledon, quite right; and, in any 
case, there is no use in thinking of that now. Well, I 
have some ideas; some plans of something to be done — 
they are slowly maturing themselves in my mind; some 
light, very light employment for the present — I think I 


38 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


see my way — and a visit to some nice, warm place. The 
plan will evolve itself all right by and by, I dare say, and 
I will lay it all before you; we are fellow-conspirators, you 
remember. 

‘‘He is much better already,^’ she said, fervently. 
“ The very knowledge that some one is near who will hold 
out a friendly hand to him, has made a change. He does 
not feel so lonely. Come, let us go back to him.^' 

So they had a pleasant day, and Roland drove them 
home. But he left them, and did not go in. He thought 
there might seem a want of delicacy if he were to take 
perpetual possession of them. 

“ I wish you hadn’t said that stupid thing about the 
tears in your eyes to-day, Mary,” Laurence said, when 
they were in their room again. 

“ Was it stupid? 1 didn’t think about it.” 

“ No, 1 dare say; but wouldn’t it be better if you did 
think a little more about things?” 

“ Oh, yes, Laurence, 1 am sure it would; but the truth 
was, 1 was so very happy, and the happiness was so new to 
you and me; and things had, begun to look so bright, and 
it was his kindness. ” 

“ Exactly; but we need not proclaim all about that too 
loudly. There is a medium, dear, even in gratitude. ” 

‘ ‘ Laurence, I couldn’t think so. ” 

“ Yes, there is. People don’t think one bit the more of 
you for being too grateful. And, after all, what is there 
to be in such raptures about, so far? What has Oliver 
done for us? He has brought a carriage and taken us for 
a drive. Oh, yes, and he has paid for a dinner. And 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


30 


then, ^here did he take us to? To stupid, out-of-the- 
way, vulgar Battersea Park! Why not to Hyde Park?"" 

‘‘ 1 suppose he thought we would like the quietness of 
Battersea Park better, Laurence. 1 am sure / did."" 

“ That wasn"t the reason. He took us there because he 
did not want his smart friends in the Row to see him go- 
ing about with you and me. "" 

She looked with wonder at her husband. She had not 
seen him in quite such a mood before. She had long 
learned how morbid he could sometimes be; but she knew 
that this was the way of most invalids. Her sweet temper 
and generous spirit made full allowance for this, and she 
would no more have thought of finding fault with her hus- 
band for an occasional burst of peevishness in his present 
valetudinarian state, than she would have found fault with 
him for being tired or for feeling pain. But the way in 
which he now talked of Roland 01iver"s kindness discon- 
certed and distressed her. She became oppressed with 
that terrible sense of uncertainty, which is almost the 
worst thing about calamity or trouble of any kind. Be- 
hold, this thing or that has happened — when we got up in 
the morning we had not thought of it; who shall say what 
is to happen next? We no longer feel firm foothold any- 
where. So, after some unexpected revelation of act or 
mood on the part of one we love— it shakes us; we ask 
ourselves what may not come next? 

“ Shall we read, Laurence?"" she asked, gently, feeling 
a pang of penitence for having allowed distressful or 
doubting thoughts into her mincbat all. 

“ Don"t we always read at nights?"" 


40 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


“Yes, dearest; but I thought that perhaps you were a 
little tired after the unusual air and exercise.’^ 

“ If you had rather not read, Mary, you can say so.^^ 

“ Oh, no, I am longing to read.’^ 

“ Well, if you are longing to read, I am sure you will 
read.’’ 

With this genial observation, Laurence settled himself 
down to be read to by his wife. 

It had been their habit, after they were married, to read 
together every night when they were alone. They had kept 
this up for awhile at Constantinople, but only for awhile. 
Laurence was very much out of nights; he frequented the 
society of the English Club at Pera, and knew a number 
of pleasant fellows from the British and other embassies, 
and a good deal of card-playing, not to say gambling, went 
on. His wife had many a lonely night, and read to her- 
self. 

Times of trouble came, and the break-down of Lau- 
rence’s health, and they left Constantinople. All through 
his illness she read to him of nights, when he cared to hear 
anything read. Perhaps the one consolation she had for 
his illness was in the fact that* now he was always at home 
with her, and that there were things she could do for him, 
and that her presence was necessary to him. She took 
down her Shakespeare — they generally read from Shake- 
speare, taking any place which came to hand. Last night 
they had had no reading, because of Roland’s presence. 
Thinking of what Roland had said that day, she turned to 
the closing scenes of “ ^iulius Caesar.” She came to the 
lines which Brutus speaks just before his death: 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


41 


“ My heart doth joy that yet in all my life, 

I found no man but he was true to me.” 

She stopped for a moment. 

“ Why do you stop, Mary?’^ 

“ That touches me so much, Laurence. It gives you 
the whole character of the man. Think of what a nature 
that was; he is on the point of death, and yet is made glad 
by remembering that he found no man in all his life who 
was not true to him. 

“Yes; but that couldn^t have been. He must have 
met many a man who was not true to him. ” 

“ But he didnT know it; he didn't believe it; uo 
thought of it ever came into his mind. Because he was so 
true and noble himself, he saw truth and nobleness in all 
the world around him." 

“ That was rather like being what I should call a fool." 

“ Oh, but, my dear Laurence, Shakespeare's Brutus was 
not meant to be a fool." 

She went on with the reading, and did not further dis- 
cuss the question of Brutus's imputed foolishness. Lau- 
rence for awhile kept softly chuckling over his own clever- 
ness and the way in which she was evidently disconcerted. 
Laurence had always a very exalted idea of his own clever- 
ness, and he liked his wife to see how much superior he 
was to her in intellect, as well as in knowledge of the 
world. 

In the middle of the lines in which Antony pays his im- 
mortal tribute to the nobleness of Brutus, Laurence sud- 
denly interrupted his wife: 

“ You see, Mary, he is not coming to-night.' 


42 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


Mr. Oliver? Oh, no; I didn’t expect that he 
would.” 

“ Why not?” 

“Well, I suppose he had some other place to go to; 
and, besides, he might perhaps think we didn’t wantiiim 
every night.” 

“ Oh, that’s not it! I suppose the truth is that he is 
getting a little tired of us already.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

ROSALINE. 

A FORTNIGHT or SO passed off in this way. Roland 
came to see his friends almost every day. The weather 
was growing warmer, and they drove out very often, and, 
to Laurence’s satisfaction, drove often in Hyde Park. At 
least, it was to his satisfaction at first, until it came into 
his mind that Roland had taken them there, not of his 
own spontaneous motion, but because Mary had asked 
him, and, like most people who love to be pleased, Lau- 
rence hated to know that things were done merely to 
please him. Roland had not yet matured his plans about 
Laurence. He set himself to mature these plans, what- 
ever they were, merely to put Laurence’s mind at rest by 
the assurance that some means were to be found by which 
he could make his own way once again; but Laurence 
really did not trouble his mind very much on the subject. 

A surprise was in store for Roland Oliver. A new and 
totally unlooked-for figure was coming on the narrow scene 
of his present story. Mounting up and down the stairs of 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


48 


the Agar Street house, he had noticed, with a sort of lan- 
guid curiosity, that on a midway floor there were some 
signs of a new tenancy. There was cleaning- work going 
on, and furniture was being put in. He was vaguely 
wondering why anybody should care to come and live in 
such a place. The preparations were soon made; there 
was no further movement, and Roland forgot all about the 
matter. One day, however, as he was coming down the 
stairs, the door of these rooms opened, and a lady came 
out. Roland drew back to let her pass. 

‘‘ Roland 

The word was spoken in a low, soft tone meant to be at 
once tender and timid. Looking whither the voice 
sounded, Roland was conscious of the presence of a slender 
woman with sparkling, dark-brown eyes — eyes all but 
black in their color — and he saw that she was holding out 
her hand to him; and, behold, he was in the presence of 
his false true-love of other days! In a glance, too, his eyes 
and his mind became aware that, although she was not in 
weeds, her dress denoted widowhood. A great pang of 
pity darted through the young man^s heart; but it was 
only pity, or at best compassion. 

He took her hand. 

“ Mrs. Church he said. 

‘‘Mrs. Church! Mrs. Churchl Well, well! But I 
suppose that is as it ought to be, and I have no right to be 
surprised. I did you a great wrong, Roland— you see, I 
must still call you by the name I am familiar with; unless 
you wish me not to, and then, of course — 


44 


KOLAND OLIVER. 


“ Oh, no!’^ he said, a little impatiently. “ Call me 
Roland; of course I will call you Lydia — 

“ Thank you! thank you! It will be like old times — 

“ I will call you Lydia, he said, ‘‘ of course, since you 
wish it. I only forgot for the moment.'^ 

“ I acted very badly to you,^’ she said, dropping her 
eyes. 

“ Never mind; it canT be helped,^^ he answered, feel- 
ing conscious the moment he had uttered the words that 
he was saying something either very ungracious or very 
stupid. 

A quick little flash came into Lydians sparkling eyes. 
That was exactly what she was by no means sure of; she 
was not at all certain that it could not be helped; in fact, 
she had made up her mind that it could, would, and 
should be helped. 

“ You have forgiven me, Roland?^^ she asked, in plead- 
ing tones, ‘‘ I know you have; you were always generous 
and high-minded.^^ 

“ Oh, yes,^^ he answered, hurriedly, “ I forgave you 
long ago.^^ He did not want any sentimentality. 

“I am so glad,^^ she said, fervently. But somehow 
her expression of countenance when he spoke of this un- 
conditional pardon issued in her behalf long ago, did not 
seem an expression of unmingled gratefulness and joy. 

“ But I am sorry, he said — very awkwardly, as is the 
man^s fashion; he was ever so much more embarrassed 
than the woman — “ 1 am sorry to see — by your dress — I 
had not heard — I have been so long out of England. *^ 

“That I was a widow? Oh, yes. For more than a 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


45 


year. How time runs on! I thought I could not have 
lived, and yet you see, Roland, I live.^^ She seemed in- 
deed very much alive. 

“ I am sorry, Lydia — so very sorry — for your grief. 

Then again a glance of her eyes might have told him, 
if he had been in the way of thinking of her meaning, that 
she was not altogether delighted with his expression of 
grief. She would not have minded if it had been merely a 
formal and polite expression of regret; but it seemed only 
too genuine. He was then really sorry for an event which 
had set her free? Still, she did not by any means despond. 

“ WonT you come into my rooms and talk to me a lit- 
tle?^’ she said, almost tenderly. “ One can^t talk things 
out here on this public landing. 

“ Your rooms?^^ he asked, in wonder. “ Do you live 
here?^^ 

“ Oh, yes; I live here.^^ 

“ And what on earth are you doing here?'^ 

“ Come in,’^ she said, hurriedly, “ come in. I want to 
talk to you and we can’t talk here. I have hired a little 
set of rooms here; 1 live absolutely alone, except for my 
maid.” She opened with a latch-key the door behind her, 
and Roland followed her into her rooms. They were not 
like the rooms of the Caledons upstairs; they were abso- 
lutely unadorned, unrelieved by any brightening of artistic 
taste. A table in the middle of the sitting-room with a 
shiny covering to it; a gilt clock on the chimney-piece 
with a simpering shepherd on one side, and a simpering 
nymph on the other— that sort of thing. There were also 
shells as adornments on the chimney-piece. There was a 


46 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


mirror. The chairs and the sofa were covered with the in- 
viting horsehair. 

Lydia sat on the sofa and signaled for him to take his 
seat by her side. He drew a chair, however, and was con- 
tent with that. 

“ Tell me about yourself, he said; he really felt only 
kindness to her; “ tell me why you come to be here.^^’ 

“ Here? Oh, I come to be here, as other people come 
to be here, because it is central and cheap, when you con- 
sider how central it is. I have been left but a very limited 
income; but it is enough for me, and I don^t want to add 
to it; but I want to be of some use in the world. Yes, I 
do. You tried to form me, Roland, for some good pur- 
pose in life; but you could not succeed — even you! for I 
was too light and silly and frivolous then. Ah, the real 
trials of life have formed me since then. I am poor, as I 
told you; but 1 have enough to live on, so 1 want to lead a 
life that shall be useful, and that shall in some measure 
atone for wrong done and folly. 

This was a bold shot and it told to a certain extent. It 
appealed to Roland. He, too, was bent on doing some- 
thing in the way of atonement. 

“ Tell me,^^ he said, “ what your idea is, what you pro- 
pose to do. There is so little allowed to a woman to do in 
the narrow ways of our conventional life. 

She paused for a moment. 

“ AYeil,^^ she said, “ for one thing, I thought of getting 
elected to the School Board. 

“ Elected to the School Board?’^ 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


47 


“Yes; of this quarter. That is one reason why I took 
rooms in this dismal old house. 

Up to the moment when Lydia was asked what she pro- 
posed to do, she had not the faintest notion of becoming a 
candidate for election to the School Board. She had never 
bestowed a thought upon the School Board ; but she had a 
vague recollection of Eoland^s having, in other days, ex- 
pressed some views in favor of woman having a mission; 
and when he spoke of the narrow ways of our conventional 
life, as regards the career of woman, she thought she had 
found her cue. So she emerged at once from uncertainty 
into a definite, published candidate for election to the 
School Board. 

Roland seemed decidedly astonished. 

“ I never thought you had any inclinations in that 
way. 

“ 1 never had any inclinations that way. I never 
thought I had the capacity. As 1 just told you, you tried 
to form me and you couldnT. I needed sterner treatment 
than your kind, gentle ways; and life has given it to me. 
I knew then, however, silly as I was, that 1 was not good 
enough for you — I saw that — oh, I saw that, Roland — and 
that was why. But we must not talk about these things. 
Let the dead past bury its dead.^^ 

“ All this while,"" Roland said, “ you have not told me 
a word about your past history. I never knew you 
were — "" He glanced at her black and gray colors. 

“That I was a widow? Yes; my poor husband died 
when we had been two years married. He was very good 


48 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


and kind to me, and I tried all I could to make him haji- 
py. We were not, perhaps, quite suited to each other. 

“ Well, never mind about that,^^ Koland said, quickly. 
He did not want to go into that story. 

“Yes, yes; you are right, we will pass that over, and it 
was my fault, not his; at least, 1 think so. Eoland, you 
were fortunate, perhaps, after all. But there, I donH 
want to talk about myself, 1 want to talk about you. 
First of all, Koland, I want to know if you are married 
A pretty little blush suffused the innocent countenance of 
the widow as she put this ingenuous question. 

“ Oh, no,^^ Koland answered, with a laugh. “ And I 
am not at all likely to be. I am not a marrying man.^' 

“ No?^^ And in her mind were formed the words, 
‘ ‘ But I am very much a marrying woman. ^ ’ 

“ You are not living in this place, surely? You have no 
need to come and live in a place like this?’^ 

“ No; I am not living here. I come here to see a 
friend; he is out of health, and down upon his luck, poor 
fellow.” 

“ It is like you, Eoland. You were always trying to do 
good for somebody. But is it not the strangest coinci- 
dence that I should have come to live in this place too?” 

“ It is, indeed, a very curious coincidence; I should 
never have thought of seeing you here. ” 

“ Goodness! nor I of seeing you. How glad I am; for 
now I shall hope often to catch a glimpse of you as you 
pass by. You will look in upon me sometimes, won^t 
you, for the sake of old times; and to show that there is no 
ill-feeling? I won’t keep you now; I know you are busy. 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


49 


and my place yet is not fit to receive visitors; only I 
couldn^t let you pass. And I haven^t got in my piano or 
my guitar yet, and when I do get them in, you will let me 
play and sing to you sometimes? Yes, you will.'' 

She smiled bewitchingly. Roland murmured out some 
words of promise, and gratification, and so on; and they 
shook hands, and she allowed her hand to rest for just one 
little half quarter moment in his, and she looked up into 
his eyes and then looked down again; and so they parted. 

Roland, to say the truth, would not have been particu- 
larly glad to see his former sweetheart in any place, and 
he was by no means glad to see her in this place. He 
felt compassion for her widowed state; he was very sorry 
if she was poor; but he did not like her little ways at all. 
She seemed to him full of affectation. Was that really 
the woman he once loved? Were these vapid little airs 
and graces, and sham sentimentalities, charming to him at 
one time? It must be so; but he could not understand it 
now. She was pretty; yes, decidedly pretty, and she had 
a nice little figure; but he knew she never could interest 
him again, and he was sorry that they should be brought 
together in such a way that they must needs meet often. 
He had for some time been thinking of persuading the 
Caledons to move into some other quarters, and was only 
afraid that Mary Caledon would refuse on the ground that 
they could not afford to pay more, and that he must not 
be allowed to pay for them. Now he felt that he really 
must make an effort. He did not want this little woman 
to get to know the Caledons. 

Is any one surprised that so complete an awakening 


50 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


from his former love should have come about with Rolaud 
Oliver? There is not the slightest reason for surprise. I, 
for one, do not believe that Romeo was ever really in love 
with Rosaline. He had come to the age when a man must 
try to be in love with some woman; and Rosaline came in 
his way and he elected himself her lover; called a meeting 
of himself and passed a resolution within his own breast 
that he was desperately in love with her. Suddenly the 
real woman presented herself, and with her came the real 
love, and poor Mistress Rosaline’s little light went out in 
an instant. If he had ever gone back to Rosaline he would 
probably have found her an empty-headed, dull little 
thing; or also, perhaps, a vain and self-conceited creature, 
and he would have wondered much how he ever could 
have taken it into his head that he was in love with her. 
This was the way with Roland Oliver. When he fancied 
he was in love with Lydia Palmer, he was only a boy in 
years and in feeling. He had come to the time when he 
could not exist without thinking himself in love with some 
girl, and he “ saw her fair, none else being by,” and he 
was glad and proud to attach himself to Lydia’s petticoat 
tail. He had nothing to reproach himself with; he had 
stuck to her; he would have married her; he would proba- 
bly have made her a very good husband, even after he had 
found out that she was not a woman he could really love; 
that she was not the woman; and that, therefore, the 
woman could never belong to him. But she had thrown 
him over, and the shock had wakened him up, and other 
troubles had come in, and he had been a wanderer; and, 
in fact, he had utterly ceased to think about Lydia. 


ROLAKD OLIYER. 


51 


It was otherwise with Lydia. Lydia Church had not 
for a long time been able to forgive Roland for Lydia 
Palmer having jilted him. Lydia Palmer turned herself 
into Lydia Church because she thought there was not the 
slightest chance of Roland ^s father agreeing to the mar- 
riage between Roland and her. The rising young barris- 
ter presented himself; he had met Lydia at Bournemouth 
in the first instance, and he was taken by her pretty ways 
and her sparkling eyes, and he made love to her. She 
thought it all over, and she married him. They had to 
live in a modest sort of way, but she was happy enough 
seeing herself the wife of a future lord chancellor, or chief 
justice at all events; she was very happy until she learned 
that Roland had come back to his father^s home, and 
would certainly be the heir of his father^s property. 
Then she became wroth with him, and almost hated him. 
Why had he allowed her to throw him over? Why had he 
not insisted on making her his wife? Why had he not run 
away with her? If he really loved her he would have 
made her marry him. The expectancy of being a lord 
chancellor’s wife was all very well; but then she now re- 
membered, with the chill of contrast on her, that there 
are known cases of barristers who do not become lord 
chancellors or even lord chief justices; and there was 
Roland Oliver, with his splendid fortune, real and ready 
to hand, of which he had positively beguiled her, allowing 
her to throw him over. Then her life was very dull, her 
husband was always away at his stupid courts, or at home 
studying his stupid briefs; and they did not go into so- 
ciety; and in any case she would have infinitely preferred. 


52 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


other things being equal, to be the wife of Koland than of 
John Church. For all these reasons she was furious with 
poor Roland and hated him. 

Then came a change. Roland went away after his 
father^s death, and hardly anybody knew what had be- 
come of him. Poor Church, the rising barrister, not only 
did not rise, but actually fell. He got ill — his health 
never was very good — he had worked too hard in the effort 
to make Lydia the wife of a lord chancellor, or at least a 
chief justice; and he died. With the help of his father he 
had managed to leave her an annuity of just three hun- 
dred a year. §he could live decently; with strict econ- 
omy she could live like a lady. Three hundred a year 
goes a long way with a woman. Women donT care about 
their dinners, they can dine on a Bath bun and a cup of 
tea. They are, as a rule, no judges of wine; they don't, 
as a rule, smoke cigars; they don't, as a rule, desire to 
spend heavily on the turf; neither has the ballet any over- 
powering attraction for them. Lydia began to find her 
life of widowhood not by any means disagreeable; she 
began to go about a little in a certain narrow circle; she 
began to know people. She was quite determined to get 
married again at the first good opportunity; but she 
thought she had had enough of rising men, she would 
much prefer a certainty next time. Then all of a sudden 
she heard that Roland Oliver had come back to London 
and was going to settle there, and that he was still un- 
married. From that moment she had forgiven him all, 
and had ceased from uncharitable hate. 


KOLAND OLIVER. 


53 


CHAPTER V. 

THE PET DOVE. 

Mrs. Church had, among her other gifts, a perfect 
passion for finding out secrets. She had a firm belief that 
everybody's life inclosed some disagreeable mystery that 
the owner would not have known to the nearest friend; 
and to try to get at the key of these secret chambers was 
a joy to her. It was indeed, in her present idleness, an 
occupation as well as a delight. She went roundabout 
ways often to get at knowledge which she might have 
easily reached by the open, straightforward high-road. 
She had, indeed, first won her way into the confidence and 
affection of Roland Oliver by working at him with the 
object of finding out whether he was not really in love 
with some other girl. As soon as she learned that he had 
come back to London, she set herself to watch him and to 
find out all about him. She had no trouble in getting at 
his address, and then she devoted herself to the business of 
watching him. She had as maid, or as a sort of com- 
panion, a girl whom she had taken out of a work-house and 
trained up in all her own ways, and she set this girl to 
hang about the street where Roland lived, and to find 
where he went every day. It was easy to find. Roland 
went almost, every day to the house in Agar Street. Mrs. 
Church at once assumed that he went there to see some 
woman; at all events, that there was some mystery in the 
matter with which woman was concerned; anyhow she was 
determined to find out. And then there occurred to her 


54 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


the bright thought that she might not merely gratify an 
innocent curiosity, but also advance her own determined 
plans upon Eoland^s hand, heart, and fortune. Why not 
put herself directly in his way, so that he could not evade 
her? Why not put herself often in his way? Why not 
take up her quarters in the very house which, sheltered his 
mystery? That would be a delightful adventure, even if 
it should come to nothing better; and Mrs. Church, 
glancing complacently into her mirror, told herself that 
she thought she could make it come to something much 
better. There were a good many vacant rooms in the 
Agar Street house; Mrs. Church took three of them, and 
settled herself and her maid there in the character and 
form of interesting beneficence with limited means. 

“ Cora,’^ Mrs. Church said to her maid the day after 
she had talked with Boland, “ 1 want to find out who the 
person is that Mr. Roland goes to see here. Go and find 
out for me who are really living in this house; who live 
here night and day; I donT care about the office people 
who go away after hours. 

“ Yes, ma^am; Til find out, ma^am.^' 

Cora went on her quest, and was not long absent. 

“ Please, ma^am, I\e seen the housekeeper, and she 
says there ain^t any one who lives in the house but our- 
selves, and herself, and an old bachelor gentleman who 
hardly ever goes out, and a gentleman and lady — least- 
ways a party and his wife — who live at the very top.^^ 

“ A man and his wife?^^ 

“ Yes, ma^am — leastways the housekeeper supposes she 


EDLAND OLTVEK. 


55 


is his wife. She don^t know much about them. ‘ They 
keep themselves very much to themselves/ she says.^" 

This was delightfully mysterious. These, of course, 
were the people Roland used to visit so often. This was 
the invalid friend — and there, to he sure, was the invalid 
friend^s wife. 

“ Cora,^^ she said, in a melodramatic tone, “ I must get 
to know that man and that woman — especially the 
woman. 

“ Yes, ma^am; certainly, ma^am,^’ was the complai- 
sant answer of Cora. By the way, it should be mentioned 
that Cora was a name entirely of Mrs. Churches own 
choosing for her maid, whose baptismal appellation was 
Susan. 

“ How to begin the acquaintance, Cora?^^ 

“ Perhaps if 1 was to go up and ask to borrow a little 
tea, ma’am, or sugar — ” 

“ Cora, you have no invention; you are absolutely lack- 
ing in originality. You can execute orders well enough; 
but you can not devise any plan.” 

“No, ma’am,” was the answer of the undisturbed 
Cora. 

“ Can’t you see that that would be a pitiful common- 
place sort of thing — going to borrow some tea, like people 
in a common lodging-house? That wouldn’t impress. I 
want to make an impression at the very beginning. Now 
if they only lived below me and not above, ever so many 
things might be done. I might fall in a faint just as we 
v/ere passing the door, and then you could rush in there 


56 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


and crave for help; and I should have to be carried in. 
But one can^t go up to their door to faint. 

“ No, ma^am.^^ 

“No; it^s very unsatisfactory/^ Mrs. Church meditated; 
“ even an alarm of fire would be open to the same objec- 
tion. Nobody would run upstairs on hearing an alarm of 
fire.^^ 

“ Only she might run down-stairs, ma’am. 

“ But then she would run into the street, you silly 
child — she wouldn’t stop here to talk with me. An alarm 
of fire would be a very interesting thing in many ways, if 
we could only make it serve. It might be in the night; I 
should have on one of my prettiest night-dresses. But 
then 1 don’t see how we could make it work; it would be 
found out in a moment that there was no fire. ” 

“ Unless we was to set the house really afire, ma’am.” 

“ Ridiculous! Why, we might be burned to death; or 
it might be found out that we had done it, and we should 
be put in prison for 1 don’t know how long. No, Cora; 
you must let me think this out for myself. An alarm of a 
burglar, and you and I to rush up and implore the protec- 
tion of the man?” 

“ Bless you, ma’am, he’s quite an invalid; he couldn’t 
protect us against a mouse, not to say a burglar.” 

“ But we are not supposed to know that. No, it 
wouldn’t do. People hate to be disturbed out of their 
sleep; it would make a bad impression to begin with. It 
must be done some other way; some newer and better 
way. I’ll think it out, Cora; I’ll think it out.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


57 


So Mrs. Church sat down, puckered her brows, set her 
wits to work, and thought it out. 

The result of her thinking it out came soon. She 
nodded her head, opened her eyes, smiled, and laughed to 
herself; then jumped up, shook her skirts, and prepared 
for action. She threw over her head and shoulders a 
picturesque lace shawl, which, after much pulling and re- 
arranging, she got into proper artistic form, and then 
studied herself complacently in the glass. “ That will 
do,^^ she said. 

“ Cora!^^ she called to her maid, “ 1 have got the idea, 
and a very pretty one too. You could never have got hold 
of it, or anything like it, my poor girl.^^ 

“ No, ma^am,^’ was the answer of the imperturbable 
Cora. 

Cora was not jealous of her mistresses genius. She had 
seen that the great majority of the brilliant ideas failed to 
come to anything satisfactory in practice, and that some 
of her own cruder and more homely notions had been 
called in to do duty instead. 

Mrs. Church was in luck. The outer door of the 
Caledon rooms stood partly open; the servant had just 
gone out for a moment or two. Lydia briskly entered the 
little passage, out of which three doors opened. Choosing 
by guess-work, or by instinct, she tapped rapidly at one of 
the three, and then, without waiting any further, she half 
opened the door and looked in. She was right. These, 
no doubt, were the people she wanted. A languid, invalid 
young man and a young woman — of course, his wife. 
The invalid was reclining in a chair; the wife had ap- 


58 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


parently been reading something to him. At the sound 
of Lydian’s voice she rose up, a book in her hand. 

Lydia put on the prettiest air of perturbation. She 
spoke in stammering words, almost breathless with shy 
eagerness and anxiety, and with eyes looking everywhere. 

I beg your pardon; I am afraid i am intruding; but 1 
want to ask you to do me a favor, just a little favor. 

Laurence was puzzled and annoyed at this unexpected 
visitation. Like many men who rather look down upon 
their wives and women in general, he had a way of ap- 
parently turning to his wife for an explanation of every- 
thing, as. though she were an omniscient creature. He 
therefore now looked sharply, not at the intruder, but at 
Mary, as if to ask, “ Who is this woman? Where does 
she come from? Why does she come?^’ 

Mary rose, and with all her natural sweetness of manner 
asked the lady to come in and explain herself. She very 
much hoped in her heart that the visitor would make her 
stay and her story short, for she feared that Laurence^s 
humor might lead him to show signs of impatience. 

“ Only this: if you would kindly open your front win- 
dows for a little— oh, I see they are opened already; but 1 
had better explain myself all the same. I have a pet dove 
—oh, such a sweet little creature — that I am so fond of. 
I never let him fly since I came to live here until to-day, 
and he haS not come back yet, and m^y windows donH open 
on the street, and I am afraid he may not know how to 
get to me; and 1 have asked all the other people in tlie 
house just kindly to leave a wdndow^ open for a short time 
until my little pet comes back. 




ROLAND OLIVER. 


59 


All this was said rapidly, and with a sweet tremulous- 
ness, and with many quick, shy glances at Laurence. 

, Mrs. Church saw in an instant that the husband was the 
person to be won over here. 

“ Oh, yes,^^ Mrs. Caledon said, “ we shall be delighted. 
Your little bird shall be very welcome to us if he will only 
come in through these windows, and he shall be restored 
to you. 

“ Perhaps the lady will take a seat,^^ Laurence said, 
graciously. The rapid and shy glances had not been alto- 
gether thrown away on him. 

Mrs. Church saw this with pleasure; but, to say the 
truth, she was a little disconcerted by Mary Caledon ^s 
looks and graceful presence. 

“ She is beautiful, the little woman said to herself, 
candidly and angrily. “ She is much too beautiful. I 
donT wonder that Poland comes here so often. She 
thanked Laurence with a bend, and a winning smile shot 
straight at him this time, and she sat down. 

“ Then you live here?^^ M'ary asked. “ We are neigh- 
bors?^^ 

“ Yes; I have been living here for a short time; but I 
ought to introduce myself. My name is Lydia Church — 
Mrs. Church — 1 am a widow, as you see (she directed 
attention to her mourning colors), “ and I am not very 
rich, but I want to be in the center of things, and I found 
out this place and have taken rooms on a lower floor, 
where I live with my maid and my dove.^^ 

“ This is my husband,’^ said Mary. “ Mr. Laurence 
Caledon; I am Mrs. Caledon. 


60 


ROLAKD OLIVER. 


“ Oh, yes; I know something about you both already. 
We have at least one friend in common.^’ 

“Indeed,” Mary said, much surprised. “We have 
hardly any acquaintances in London.” 

“ Oh, this is more than an acquaintance — it is a friend 
— it is Mr. Roland Oliver. ” 

Laurence looked surprised and almost incredulous. 

“ Indeed,” he said. “ Do you know Roland Oliver?” 

“ Truly,” she replied, “ I might answer as the Ameri- 
cans do, by asking do 1 know any one else? Oh, yes; I 
have known him for many years. We were great friends 
once — before I married. 1 had not met him for a long 
time — he was away and I was in grief — until the other 
day, below stairs. He told me he had been to see you, 
and he talked to me ever so much about you both, especi- 
ally about you, Mrs. Caledon, as was indeed but natural.” 

Laurence^s eyes sent forth an unwholesome gleam. 

“ Mr. Oliver is my husband’s oldest friend,” Mary said, 
simply. “ And he is the best friend we have in the 
world.” 

“ Oh, so very enthusiastic!” Mrs. Church thought. 
“ Yes; 1 can well believe that he is the soul of kindness,” 
she said aloud. “ I knew him well once — now we are 
friends again. Well, I am glad you kno^ him, too, for 
the common friendship ought to be, at least, a bond of 
acquaintanceship between you two and me, if you will 
allow me to put myself forward in such a way.” 

Mary was greatly afraid that Laurence would do what 
she had known him to do more than once before; bluntly 
declare that he and his wife did not make any new ac- 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


61 


quaintanceships. On the contrary, however, he relieved 
and gratified her by expressing in the most courteous 
manner a hope that the little lady and they might be good 
neighbors; that his wife would be delighted to see her, and 
as he was pleased, Mary really was glad. 

“ How delightful for me to have such neighbors, Mrs. 
Church exclaimed, fervently. ‘‘ It was my good star, 
surely, that lighted me the way to this house; and it 
looked so dreary and ghostly a place when I first came. 
But what exquisitely pretty little rooms! How delightful- 
ly fitted up! That is your taste, I am sure, Mrs. Caledon. 
I can see the imprint of your hand in that — and that — 
No, indeed, Mary said, with a smile, “it is all my 
husband's doing; he has much better taste than 1 have." 

“ My wife does not much care about artistic decora- 
tions, in fact," Laurence said; “ 1 am afraid I got it all 
done to please myself." 

“ Indeed! I am so surprised; I mean that Mrs. Cale- 
don should not have artistic tastes. Why, she is a work 
of art herself." 

“ Do you mean that I paint or get myself up?" Mary 
asked, with e little touch of humor accentuating her smile. 

“ Oh, please, Mrs. Caledon, don't think of such a 
thing. Oh, no, no— never. One has only to look at you! 
That tint on the cheek is beyond the reach of art. What 
I meant was that you look so like a picture or a statue, do 
you know — if I may be excused for saying such a thing 
bluntly out — I never saw a better-assorted pair; both so 
handsome, and both a little delicate. I am not paying a 


62 


KOLAKT) OLIVER. 


compliment; I am only saying what I think; it is a way I 
have.^^ 

It is certain that a slight flush came on Laurence^s 
cheek. It was so long since any woman had said a pretty 
thing to him — except his wife, of course; but then, men 
don^t always care much for pretty things said by their 
wives. 

Mrs. Church thought that now was the time to retreat, 
and leave a favorable impression behind; on the man at 
least. She did not care twopence what impression she 
made on the woman; and, besides, had got an idea that 
somehow Mrs. Caledon and she would not get on. So she 
rose and shook out her skirts daintily. 

“ Well,^’ she said, “I must not intrude on your time 
any longer. 1 am so glad to have broken the ice. I shall 
expect — at least I shall ask and crave for a return visit. 

“ My wife will be delighted — ” 

“ And you too, Mr. Caledon — you too, I hope? 1 know 
that gentlemen are not fond of paying calls; but in the 
same house, you know. And it seemed such a lonely 
house; and I have no children.'’^ 

Then she glanced quickly round the room, as if to see 
whether there were any evidences of the propinquity of 
children. 

“Nor we,^^ Mary said, softly. “We never had. We 
are alone. 

“ All the greater reason for our being companionable, 
we three childless creatures, Mrs. Church said. “ Well, 
I shall look to see you very soon; and you, Mr. Caledon, 
too — remember. 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


63 


I shall be only too happy/ ^ Laurence said, with some- 
thing like an approach to warmth in his tone. 

“ I hope your little dove will come back,^’ Mary said, as 
they were parting. Lydia had forgotten all about the 
dove. 

“ My dove? Oh, yes, thank you. I don^t believe he 
could live without me — or I without him, indeed, or I 
without him. Good-bye, Mrs. Caledon. She smiled 
sweetly, and tripped down-stairs. 

She entered her owii rooms in an exulting mood of 
mind. She had begun well, she thought, and she would 
take good care to improve her opportunities. She had 
made out a whole story for herself. Roland was caught 
by the fascinations of that pale, very handsome, intel- 
lectual wpman, who was of course drawing him on to get 
money out of him. Lydia was not much disturbed at the 
thought. 

Roland could not marry Mrs. Caledon, and she 
knew he was not given to amorous intrigue of any kind. 
She would find out gradually whether Mrs. Caledon was 
inclined to assist her in trying to get Roland to marry his 
old sweetheart. If she.was so inclined, then she and I^ydia 
might work together; if not, Mrs. Caledon must be got 
out of the way, and out of RolainRs mind somehow. 
Lydia had not quite satisfied herself as to whether the hus- 
band was rogue or dupe, but she would soon find out that; 
and the best way to get at him was by flirtation; of that 
she was quite sure. If there were no other motive, she 
thought, it would be very nicb to make Mrs. Caledon jeal- 
ous. There was no tribute more delightful to Lydia than 


64 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


the tears of jealous wives, especially when the wives were 
handsome. 

She called for Cora. 

“ Cora, you know the bird-fanciers" shops in St. Mar- 
tin’s Lane? Go quickly and buy me a dove there. Mind, 
a white dove; and, remember, if any one says anything to 
you about it that I have had that dove for a long time, 
and that he is my especial pet and playmate, and the com- 
panion of my solitude — that sort of thing — you know.” 


CHAPTEE VI. 

“have dohe with the heroics.” 

Some weeks passed, and it was summer. Things seemed 
to be going on just the same with the Caledons and Eo- 
land; but they were not quite the same in reality. Eoland 
came nearly as often as ever; and the three went out for 
drives in the park, or to Eichmond or Greenwich, where 
now, in Laurence’s bettered health, they were able to stay 
and have nice little dinners, which Laurence enjoyed im- 
mensely, and which Eoland enjoyed likewise, and which 
Mary would have enjoyed if she ‘could. There was much 
talk of an expedition to some delightful place abroad, 
which they three were to make in the autumn. All this 
surely ought to have been very pleasant for Mary. Yes, a 
little dinner at Eichmond or Greenwich was very pleasant; 
the talk of the three in the twilight was often delightful; 
Mary felt herself “ coming out ” as she had never come 
out before, about books and plays — they often went to the 
play now — and men and women and foreign countries, and 


ROLAITD OLIVER. 


65 


even creeds and theologies. But toward the close of the 
evening came the bad quarter of an hour for Mary. It 
was not the ordinary diner bad quarter of an hour. It 
came when the bill was presented, as a matter of course, 
to Roland; a'nd Roland, as a matter of course, paid it. 

“ Laurence dear,’^ she said one evening when they were 
alone, “ is it right to let Mr. Oliver pay for all these drives 
and dinners?” 

Laurence looked up from his invalid-chair — he still 
lounged in his invalid-chair. 

“ What on. earth would you propose to do?” he asked, 
in amazement. 

“ Oouldn^t we pay now and then, even?” 

What an idea! That is like a woman. Why, do you 
know wliat one of these little dinners costs?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, reddening. “I had 
better not know. ” 

“ Why, that little dinner yesterday must have cost five 
or six pounds. Such splendid wines. Why, it’s seventeen 
and sixpence a — ” 

“ But, Laurence, is it right that his money should be 
spent upon us— that we should be paid for in that sort of 
way?” 

“ Why not?” 

“ Isn’t it degrading?” 

“ Oh, no, not in the case of a friend like him. He has 
nothing to do with his money; he enjoys spending it, and 
he tells me he hates dining alone. Oh, no, it’s all right.” 

“ I feel it a degradation.” 

3 


66 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


“ I don’t. And I do wish, Mary, you hadn’t looked so 
sulky last evening.” 

I wasn’t sulky, dear; only I felt pained, somehow, 
when the waiter presented the bill to Mr. Oliver quite as a 
matter of course.” 

“ Wouldn’t be of much use his presenting it to you or 
me, would it?” 

“No; and that is what pains me. Why accept these 
dinners?” 

‘ ‘ Oh, I dare say you want to deprive me of even that 
little enjoyment! Oliver must have seen that you were 
out of humor last night. He must have thought you in a 
devil of a temper. I dare say you wanted him to, so that 
he might not ask us any more. Well, you see he is not 
coming to-night. You have frightened him away.” 

“ Come now, Laurence dear,” Mary said, with uncon- 
querable good temper, “you know he told us before we 
sat down to dinner that he had an engagement for to- 
night, so it couldn’t have been my fault, you see. ” 

“He’s not coming to-night anyhow; and we needn’t 
argue about it, Mary.” 

“ No, dear. Would you like me to read to you?” 

“ 1 wonder is Mrs. Church in her rooms? Perhaps she 
would come up and talk to us. I like her talk; it is bright 
— bright. It freshens one up. ” 

“ Shall I send Annie to ask if she is in?” 

Mary felt disappointed, but did not mean to show it. 

“ Yes, dear; send Annie. Unless you would rather not 
have Mrs. Church.” 

So Mrs. Church was sent for; and she came, all smiles. 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


67 


and grace, and artless coquetry. But she was disappointed 
when she saw that Roland was not there; and much vexed 
— though she would not show her vexation — when she 
found that Laurence, before sending for her, knew he was 
not to be there. She had begun to suspect that Roland 
tried to avoid her. That she did not much mind; she 
thought she could win in the end, and she had counted on 
obstacles and difficulties. But she did not by any means 
relish the idea of being sent for merely to entertain Mr. 
Caledon, and, in order that her evening might not be 
wholly thrown away, she set herself to finding out all that 
she could of that gentleman^s past career. She made out 
something to go upon; she made out that he had lived in 
Constantinople, and did not like to be reminded of the 
fact. 

“Eleven o’clock!^^ she suddenly exclaimed. Jumping 
from her chair. “ I had no idea it was so late. How we 
have been talking! I have enjoyed myself! Sd kind of 
you to send for me!’^ 

“May we send for you again?” Laurence asked, 
sweetly. 

“ If you dorCt — and very soon — Pll come without being 
sent for,” she answered. 

That, indeed, was what she fully meant to do. 

Mary Caledon found her mind occupied — sadly and 
painfully overoccupied — in trying to understand her hus- 
band. There were times when she could not make up her 
mind as to whether he loved Roland or detested him. To 
lier he spoke alternately in highly-wrought praise of his 
friend and in bitter disparagement of him. He did not 


68 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


seem to be able to do without Eoland's company; he was 
uneasy and distressed if Roland allowed a day or two to 
pass without coming to see them. He occasionally grum- 
bled at her for not being, as he said, nice enough to 
Roland. Mary admired Roland, and appreciated him to 
the full; but she found the whole situation becoming very 
hard to bear. What especially troubled her was that Lau- 
rence seemed quite content to sink into a condition of ab- 
solute dependence. He was much better in health now, 
and she thought he would be better still if he would work 
a little every day at some light literary task; something 
that would show he was able and eager to make an effort 
on his own account. She could not endure the idea of his 
thus settling d^wn to live on the bounty of his friend, and 
she was determined it should not be, even if she had to 
speak to Roland himself on the subject. She was con- 
scious that her mind was becoming morbid from thus con- 
tinually dwelling on the one subject; and she began to 
have a miserable feeling that her respect for her husband 
was crumbling away. From this thought she started at 
first in horror; but it would not go from her; it followed 
her like the “ frightful fiend, that “close behind doth 
tread, in “ The Ancient Mariner. 

Was she getting a little jealous of Roland? Certainly it 
vexed her to know that every day Laurence was looking 
out eagerly for his coming. It vexed her to think that 
she was less necessary to her husband’s life than she had 
been a short time ago. Then she was angry with herself, 
because she could allow such ignoble ideas to enter into her 
mind. Perhaps this made her all the more angry with 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


09 


KoJand, because he was the cause of the ideas having any 
existence at all. She could discover nothing in Roland 
which was not healthy, manly, and true. Such an influ- 
ence ought surely to be only for good, wherever it came: 
and yet it did not seem to do much good for that little' 
household — in the spiritual sense, that is to say. Then 
she did not see where it was to end. Was Laurence to 
live on, and on, as a dependent on the charity — on the 
generosity — of his old friend? She ventured once to sug- 
gest to her husband that, as he was so much improved in 
health now, he might make some attempt at literary work. 
But, although she only whispered the suggestion ever so 
gently, Laurence grew angry, and said he supposed she 
wanted him to throw himself back into sickness again; and 
expressed a wonder that any woman should be so entirely 
without sympathy, and proceeded, indeed, to make dis- 
paraging remarks on the sex in general. Then she made 
up her mind that she would try to do something herself in 
the way of earning money; and she began to consider 
what there was which she could do, and which any one 
would care to pay for; the result of which resolve was that 
she had something which she must not tell to Laurence, 
and about which she must consult Mr. Oliver. 

Was she also a little vexed in her inward heart because 
Roland was so strong and healthy in mind and body; so 
manly and so gentle, and in every way so much of a con- 
trast to her husband? Sometimes she allowed herself to 
think of this, a4d then it seemed a disloyalty and a treason 
to her husband, and she tried to drive it off by telling her- 
self that probably all men were very much alike if one only 


ro 


ROLAKD OLIVER. 


knew. Laurence's faults were not great; they were de- 
fects of temper and of manner only, and, perhaps, if she 
knew other men well, she might find that they were no 
better than he. For example, she saw that, while Roland 
was present, Laurence's manner to him was always the 
same. He always showed the most friendly and cordial 
welcome to Roland; always spoke to him in the same 
friendly and even affectionate way. Well, but if Laurence 
could be so different a man in Roland's presence from tlie 
man he sometimes showed himself to be in Roland's ab- 
sence, who was to assure her that Roland too might not 
have his varying moods, and show only his bright side to 
his friends? On the whole, her life was not made more 
happy of late. Many of her most fervent prayers had been 
granted. Things had come to pass, the happening of 
which she would have thought a few weeks ago would have 
been all she wanted. Her husband was getting better; 
he was in a fair way to get quite well. He had found a 
friend who was able and most willing to help him. He was 
no longer alone and uncared for, and yet she could not 
hide from herself the truth that life was little the brighter 
for her. 

Lydia, for her part, did not find her schemes advancing 
in anything like a satisfactory way, or, indeed, advancing 
at all. She began to tell herself resolutely that it must be 
Mary who was crossing her path and keeping Roland from 
lior. She had an inward conviction, somehow, that Mary 
saw through her, and disliked her. She . was sure Mary 
talked to Roland about her, and put him against her. 
She was wrong of course; Mary had never said a word to 


ROLAN-D OLIVER. 


71 


Roland in disparagement of the woman to whom she knew 
that he had once been engaged. Roland had never spoken 
to her of Mrs. Church. But Lydia knew what she would 
have done herself under such conditions, and she assumed 
that what she would do every other woman would be sure 
to do. 

The day after her evening with the Oaledons, her faith- 
ful Cora announced to her that Mr. Oliver had just gone 
up the stairs. Lydians room did not look on the street, 
and Cora, therefore, was kept very constantly on the 
watch. 

Lydia was delighted. “ Til go up,^^ she said. ‘‘ Til 
give them twenty minutes, and then I’ll go up and make 
one of the party. Til call on dear Mrs. Caledon — to be 
sure. 

Tripping lightly up the stairs, at the end of the ap- 
pointed time, she nearly ran into the arms of Roland 
Oliver. He was standing in the lobby above Lydians room 
and below that of the Oaledons. Mary Caledon was with 
him, and they were in deep converse. Roland looked 
vexed at being interrupted. The light flush came into 
Mary^s cheek. In one moment Lydians eyes flashed fire. 

“ Oh, I am sure I beg your pardon, she exclaimed. 
‘‘ I do hope you will excuse me; I didnT know.^^ 

“ Why should you beg pardon, or make any excuse?’^ 
Roland said, with somewhat forced good-humor. “ This 
is the public thoroughfare, one might say. At all events, 
you have just as good a right to be here as Mrs. Caledon, 
for it is exactly midway between your rooms and hers; and 


72 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


you have a better right to be here than I have, for 1 don’t 
occupy any part of the premises at all.” 

“ Oh, 1 don’t mean that; but I don’t want to disturb 
people who are engaged in confidential conversation. One 
seems so intrusive.” 

“You are not intruding Jn the least, Mrs. Church,” 
Mary said, now quite composed. “ I was only asking Mr. 
Oliver’s opinion about a sort of matter of business; and I 
don’t mean to keep him very long. ” 

“ Well, I was going to see you,” Mrs. Church said; 
“ and as 1 must be a little in your way here, in this little 
mite of a passage, I’ll run up and have a chat \yith your 
husband — if you don’t mind.” 

“ He will be delighted!” Mary said. “ He always likes 
to talk to you, Mrs. Church.” 

“ So nice of you to say so!” And she nodded, smiled, 
and ran up the stairs. 

“ Laurence really does like to talk with her ever so 
much,” Mary said; as if to relieve herself from the impu- 
tation of a sort of insincerity. 

“ 1 used to like her once,” Eoland said. “ 1 once actu- 
ally thought I was in love with her.” 

“Yes, I know.” 

“ I don’t think now that I was in love with her, even 
then.” 

“ Oh, no! Of course not!” 

“ AVhy ‘ of course not?’ ” he asked, turning on her. 

“Well,” she answered, quite simply and naturally, 
“ because she is too fiippant. She hasn’t depth enough 
for you.” 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


73 


“All right! Never mind about her. Come back to 
yourself. 

So they resumed the subject on which they had been 
speaking when they were interrupted by Lydia. 

That lady meantime had invaded Laurence's solitude. 
He was only too delighted that it should be thus invaded. 
He was pleased to believe there was a sort of flirtation 
springing up between Mrs. Church and him. This time, 
however, Mrs. Church did not seem in a mood for flirta- 
tion. Her eyes flashed malignly. 

“ I appear to have disturbed such a charming, confi- 
dential tete-a-Ute” she said, “ between Roland Oliver and 
your wife. " 

Laurence knew all about the tete-a-tete in the lobby. It . 
was suggested by him. It had come to be an understood 
thing that any little affairs of business should be talked 
over by Mary and Roland, so that the nerves and the sen- 
sitiveness of the convalescent should be spared. The first 
landing below was usually the scene — the council-chamber 
of these conferences. Roland often revived his old jest 
about Mary and himself being conspirators; and she re- 
tailed it to Laurence, whom it never failed to please. Yet 
his face grew dark when Lydia spoke her malign words. 

“ I knew all about it," he said, not very sweetly. “ I 
told my wife to go and ask his advice about something." 

“Oh, yes! Of course you knew it; and it's all. right. 
But some husbands would be so jealous. Absurd of them! 

' He's a very attractive sort of young man, to be suref 
But, good gracious! if a young married woman couldn't 
talk alone to an attractive young man for a few moments. 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


t4 

what would become of us all? Only, 1 am so glad you are 
not like most other British husbands. Where did you 
learn to trust your wife? Was it in Constantinople?^^ 

Laurence frowned, and grew red, and almost trembled. 
“ What the devil,"^ he thought, “ did the woman mean by 
talking about Constantinople? Did she mean anything?^' 
For the moment he hated her. 

“ He was in Constantinople,^^ she said. 

“He! Who?^^ 

“ Who? AVhy, Roland Oliver, of course; whom were 
we talking about? Did he see her there?'^ 

“ No; he didn’t. Why do you ask?” 

“ I don’t quite know. You don’t ever seem to like to 
talk about Constantinople. I thought perhaps there 
might have been a row. ” 

“ I don’t even know what you mean,” he said, shrug- 
ging his shoulders. 

“ I don’t think I know it myself,” she replied, return- 
ing to her artless, coquettish way. “ Oil, here is your 
wife! Doesn’t she look like a picture? Could any one 
wonder if— My dear Mrs. Caledon, I have been boring 
your husband to death with my chatter; yes, I know I 
have.” 

Mary glanced at her husband, and saw with some sur- 
prise that he really did seem put out. 

When Mrs. Church had gone, Mary hastened to give 
put the good news which she had been burning to tell her 
husband. 

“ Laurence dear. I’ve had such a nice encouraging talk 


ROLAND OLIYER. 


75 


with Mr. Oliver. He quite falls into my views — into our 
views. 1 mean.'^ 

“ Oh^ falls into your views, does he?’^ 

My views and your views, dear — weren^t we quite 
agreed? He does not see why I should not try some liter- 
ary work. He thinks the mere working would do me 
good, and he doesn’t see why I might not get some things 
accepted somewhere. He knows some editors of maga- 
zines, and will ask them about it. I was so much afraid 
he would discourage and depress me, and say that women 
oughtn’t to try such work. But no; he was quite encour- 
aging, and so sweet.” 

‘‘ You seem quite excited about it, Mary.” 

He certainly did not seem excited, or, at all events, ex- 
hilarated. His face was black with gloom. 

“ Of course, he would be sweet to you,” he began, and 
then he suddenly stopped. 

“ You don’t seem pleased, Laurence.” 

Oh, yes; I am pleased. I feel as much pleasure as the 
matter calls for. It’s all in the air as yet.” 

But it will come to something. Yes, yes; if I can 
only do it,” and she blushed a little at her own anxiety, 
‘‘ and ho says he thinks I can. Anyhow, it will not be 
any fault of his if 1 can not, and I shall be grateful to 
him all the same. ” 

You needn’t overdo the grateful business, Mary, or 
make quite such a howling about it, 1 think. ” 

She turned to him amazed; she had been apologizing to 
herself in her enthusiasm. 

Surely,” she said, opening her eyes in wonder, ‘‘ we 


76 


BOLAND OLIVER. 


ought to be very grateful to Mr. Oliver? Surely we are 
grateful to him? Laurence, I don^t understand you.^^ 

“ Oh, yes; of course we are very grateful to him, and 
all that; quite grateful enough. But I presume he 
wouldn’t do it if he didn’t like it. A man may have mo- 
tives ol his own even for doing good actions.” 

“ I don’t see what possible motive Mr. Oliver could 
have. He has nothing to gain from usjor our approval.” 

‘‘ Yes, yes; that’s all very well, but there are motives in 
everything — motives, motives. I don’t fancy Oliver does 
it all out of mere friendly regard for me, ” 

“ But he has a very warm friendship for you.” 

“ Oh, well, of course. But he does not come here day 
after day to see me, that, I suppose one may say. ” 

“ How, Laurence? I don’t think I understand.” 

“ My dear, one may be very modest and yet not be quite 
so simple. Might it not be on the cards that he comes to 
see you?” 

“ To see me?” 

‘‘ Why, certainly, as the Americans say. If you weren’t 
a handsome woman, this place wouldn’t see quite so much 
of him, you may depend on that. ” 

“ Laurence!” The horror of his meaning began to im- 
press itself on her. She had not in the least understood 
him. Now there was a look upon his face that could not 
be misunderstood. 

“ One can see things,” he said. “ What’s there unlike- 
ly about Oliver coming after you, or falling in love with 
you, if you come to that?” 

“Oh, shame on you, shame, shame!” she cried; and 


KOLAND OLIVER. 


n 


her form seemed to grow with the energy of genuine pas- 
sion. “You are a coward and a craven to insult a wom- 
an like that.^^ He actually recoiled before her sudden 
outburst. He had never seen her in such a mood before; 
never thought she could be in such a mood. 

“ Come, come/’ he grumbled out, “ there’s no use in 
making too much of a thing. I don’t see why you should 
make a tragedy-queen of yourself — all about nothing. ” 

“ About nothing! Do you know what you said? do you 
put any meaning on your own words?” 

“ Well, what did I say?” 

“You said that Mr. Oliver came to this house so often 
to see me; you spoke as if he wanted to make love to me. 
Is there any meaning but the one to be put on such words 
as these?” 

“ But I didn’t say that you wanted to be made love to — 
aiid I don’t see where the insult comes in. I never had 
any suspicion as far as you are concerned. And I don’t 
see anything very astonishing in Oliver’s falling in love 
with you.” 

“Oh!” she exclaimed with a shudder, “ how can you 
talk like that — and of him, who has been our best friend, 
our only friend?” 

“ Nonsense, Mary, nonsense — a man may be a very good 
fellow, and yet not be quite insensible to the charms of a 
handsome woman — ” 

“ The wife of his friend? Oh,” and the shudder went 
through her again, and she turned her face away. 

“ I didn’t say he meant any harm or anything serious — 
or that he meant anything at all — it is you who are put- 




78 ROLAND OLIVER. 

ting a bad construction on what I said. I only meant 
that he likes to come here so much because he admires 
you — and surely if I donH mind, there is no need for you 
to be horrified. Oliver is a very good fellow: there^s noth- 
ing wrong about him; you are quite safe.’"' 

“ Oh, safe! yes; 1 am quite safe with him. He is not 
the man to make love to the wife of the friend whom he 
has saved from ruin, and from death. When he does a 
kindness to man or woman, he has no base motive in it.'^ 

‘‘ Who ever said he had? I never did. I suppose a 
man may admire a woman without having any base 
motive— 

“ No; he may not,^’ she said, impetuously breaking in 
upon him; “ a man could not allow himself to admire a 
woman in that way, and under such conditions, without a 
base motive. Eemember what he has done for us; re- 
member how we are bound to him. We ought to be ready 
to give up our very lives for him, if he wanted such a 
sacrifice. He knows all this; he knows how grateful we 
are; I say no man who had earned such gratitude could 
think for one moment of his friend^s wife in any way like 
the sort of admiration you speak of — at least, he couldn^t 
without baseness; and Mr. Oliver is the last man in the 
world to be capable of anything base.^^ 

Well, we have had enough about it, I think, he said, 
with a sort of snarl. . 

“I don’t know,” she said, doubtfully, as if she were 
seriously arguing the question with him and with herself. 
“ I think we ought to ask him not to come here so often 
in the future,” 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


79 


“ Yes; a very pretty idea, truly; and so put it into his 
head that I suspected him, or that I suspected you. 

She drew a deep, long breath. 

“You have made our position so difficult, so distress- 
ing,^^ she said. “ It seems such a treachery to him to let 
him come here day after day in his friendly way, while we 
are talking of him like this. I don/t know what to do.^^ 

“ Pll enlighten you,^’ Laurence said, with a sneer. 
“ Do nothing. There is nothing to be done.^' 

“ It seems such horrible hypocrisy.^’ 

“ Oh, there has to be a great deal of that sort of hypoc- 
risy in every-day life. I tell you again nothing was said to 
disparage him; and, after all, he is my friend, not yours. 

“ Laurence, she exclaimed, piteously, her mood hav- 
ing suddenly changed from anger to grief. “ Oh, my 
husband, what has come over you? Why have you changed 
in this way, and grown so suspicious and distrustful and 
cruel? You never used to be like that. Oh,- I used to 
think it very miserable when you were so sick, and we 
were alone; but I would give much now to be back to 
those days again. 

“Yes; I dare say you would, he said, angrily. “It 
would not give you much trouble if I were just as sick as 
before — ^ ’ 

“We were so fond of each other, she pleaded. “ It 
was a happiness to me to watch over you, and attend on 
you, and. try to make you comfortable; and I was re- 
warded enough by a kindly word, or even a kindly look. 
And now — 

“ You make too much of things; altogether too much 


80 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


of little, trifling things; you are much too sentimental; 
you let your sentiments run away with you.^’ 

She turned to him and put her hands upon his shoulders 
and drew her face toward his in the manner of one who is 
making a last appeal; she looked earnestly into his eyes. 
He tried to look away and not to meet her gaze. 

“ Laurence, my dear husband, I don^t seem to know 
you to-day. You are all changed. Your very look is not 
the same. Tell me, dear, is there any reason for this? 
Are you concealing anything from me? Has something 
happened which distresses and distracts you, and which I 
don^t know? Tell me everything. I had rather know of 
anything than believe that you are changed. 

She had no particular meaning in her words, and could 
not think of anything that plight, as she said, have dis- 
tracted him. But she had a wild hope that something 
might have happened, some stroke of evil fortune which 
had quite put him out for the moment and made him not 
himself. Anything would be better than to have to be- 
lieve that it was himself, his very self, who had lately 
spoken to her. He disengaged himself from her, and she 
let her hands fall hopelessly. ‘ 

“ Nothing has happened, he said, “ for good or bad. 
I have not had a piece of news of any kind all day; I don’t 
know what you are thinking about. Now, perhaps, you 
will kindly read me a bit, and let us have done with the 
heroics.” 

“ Yes,” she answered; “ I will have done with the 
heroics.” 

So she sat down and opened her volume and read to 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


81 


hi^i. She read on and on in a clear monotone, all the 
while not knowing what she was reading. She was think- 
ing of the past, and the present, and the future. Was 
this her husband, the husband of her youth and of her 
love? Would he go on like this, or grow worse and worse 
every day? How ^^uld it be with them in the future? 
And how was she to meet Mr. Oliver day after day and be 
pleasant and friendly with him, while remembering how 
Laurence had spoken of him? Could she so rule herself 
as to prevent him sometimes from seeing that there was 
constraint in her manner? It was not merely the words 
that Laurence had spoken, although these were very pain- 
ful and shocking; but the look, the manner, all gave them 
an odious significance. She felt degraded; and, above all, 
she felt that dread uncertainty which, as we have said be- 
fore, is one of the cruelest accompaniments of calamity. 
The firm ground was gone from beneath her feet. What 
might not happen next? Their lives could never be the 
same again. Among all the uncertainties that she kneiv 
to be the one thing certain. She was not conscious that 
she had actually stopped reading. Suddenly she was re- 
called to consciousness by a noise; the book had dropped 
from her hands and fallen on the floor. The sound woke 
up her husband, who had been some time asleep. 

“ Why,^^ he said, “you have actually been falling 
asleep, and over Shakespeare! What an odd sort of 
woman you are. 


82 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


CHAPTER VIL 
GO away! 

After a night of all but sleepless misery, Mary Caledon 
arose with the full conviction that life had wholly changed 
for her. She could never feel to her husband as she used 
to feel to him. This conviction had been growing long 
upon her; she had endeavored to chill and freeze its 
growth — but tlie forcing-house of last evening's dispute 
had made it burst into full blossom. Of one duty she felt 
clear — she must ask Roland Oliver to go away and leave 
them. She must do this for Laurence's sake, much more 
than for her own. The generous kindness which Roland 
poured out upon her husband was not merely thrown 
away, it did positive harm to such a nature as that of 
Laurence. It made him at once dependent and ungrate- 
ful. From it there came to his mind not confidence, but 
suspicion. He ascribed to his benefactor the basest mo- 
tives, and yet he was willing to stand forever with hand 
outstretched to receive the benefits. 

“ I will not tell Laurence," she resolved, “ until after. 
Then of course 1 shall tell him, but not before. It must 
be done first." 

They had rather a gloomy and silent breakfast. Short- 
ly after, Laurence came to her dressed for the street, his 
hat in his hand, a flower in his button-hole. He always 
contrived to dress very neatly at the worst of times; but 
to-day he was quite elegant. In the innocent surprise of 
seeing him thus got up, Mary forgot for the moment their 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


83 


last night^s dispute, ignored the present, and went back to 
her old, familiar, loving way. 

“ Why, Laurence, my dear, you are such a swell. 
What very nice clothes! Where did you get them?’" 

Laurence looked mightily pleased. Her words, and still 
more her manner, made him hope that she had really for- 
gotten the dispute of last night, in which he admitted to 
himself that he had been terribly indiscreet. Fancy! in a 
momentary outburst of unmeaning jealousy to say things 
to her which might set her against Roland Oliver! What 
on earth was to become of them if they had not Roland 
Oliver? And he knew well that Mary, pliable and soft as 
potter’s clay where only inclinations were concerned, could 
become firm and strong as marble where conscience or the 
sense of honor was brought into question. Yes, he had 
found this out in Constantinople, where she saved him — 
yes, he admitted that — but at the cost of what a surrender 
and what a sacrifice to him! 

‘‘ Yes; don’t they fit w^ell?” he said, with a gratified 
smile. “ 1 am trying a new tailor, and I think he’ll do.” 

This sounded rather too grand and lordly in Mary’s ears 
to make her feel quite comfortable. 

Oh,” she said, coldly. “ How did you find him out?” 

‘‘Oliver introduced me — he’s Oliver’s tailor, in fact; 
and I always admired the make of Oliver’s clothes. Don’t 
be alarmed, Mary, he’ll get paid; but he is quite content 
to wait any time.” 

“ 1 was not thinking of that,” Mary said in a depressed 
tone of voice. Then she added almost defiantly: “Oh, 
yes, I am quite sure he will get paid.” The moment she 


84 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


had spoken the words she felt sorry for having uttered 
them, and she hoped he had not noticed their significance. 
Apparently he had not. 

“ Look here, Mary,^’ he said, in free-and-easy manner, 
“ I wonder if you could lend me a sovereign? You shall 
have it back again as soon as I get paid for that article in 
‘ The Jurist,’ and I mean to finish it to-day or to-morrow.” 

Sovereigns were rare treasures in Mary’s purse. Lau- 
rence and she had for a long tinle had no money but her 
little annuity. Bit by bit she had had to sell it out, until 
it came down to the poor hundred a year, and there she 
stopped and was firm. Still, as the money was hers, she 
could not refuse his request, and she gave him a sovereign. 

“lam going to the Italian Exhibition,” he said, “ and 
1 want to be able to pay. ” 

“Oh! with Mr. Oliver?” She was glad he had asked 
for the. sovereign now-— very glad she had it to give to 
him. A feeling of relief, a light of hope came up in her; 
perhaps this was the first evidence of a resolve to be inde- 
pendent. 

“No,” he answered, hesitatingly; “lam going to take 
Mrs. Church there. She likes all that sort of thing, and I 
knew you would not care a bit about it.” 

“ Then you are not to see Mr. Oliver to-day?” 

She put this question, as the newspapers say, for the 
sake of information. 

“No; not to-day. He may come in the evening, per- 
haps; I hope so. I haven’t asked him to go with us.” - 

“ With us!” The words brought an odd little sensation 
to Mary’s heart, a sensation quite new to it. 


ROLAITD OLIVER. 


85 


“ Because/’ he went on, unheeding, “ he doesn’t like 
Lydia Church. I suppose it is some lingeriug feeling of 
the old resentment because she threw him over. Quite 
natural, of course, that he should feel like that.” 

She did not believe Roland had any such feeling, or that 
it was the cause of his dislike to Mrs. Church. But she 
said nothing, and her husband went his pleasant way. 

Then she felt that the time had come to carry out her 
purpose. Her husband was gone — and was not gone to 
Mr. Oliver’s — and her course was free. The short talk 
before Laurence’s leaving the room had made her resolu- 
tion a resolve of adamant. “ Before he returns home to- 
night,” she said to herself, “ this must be done.” She 
had no feeling of real jealousy about Lydia Church. She 
did not believe Laurence really cared about her, and she 
felt sure that Lydia had views foi* herself in life which 
were quite incompatible with the idea of her allowing her- 
self to be compromised with any man. But she thought it 
weak, and foolish, and rather ignoble of Laurence to hang 
to Mrs. Church’s skirts at such a time; and she feared that 
it would lead him to the spending of money, and that he 
would begin to borrow money of Roland. Once it came to 
that — but, no, she told herself, it shall never come to that. 
So she put on her things and went out, and got into an 
omnibus in the Strand which set her down at the bottom 
of Park Lane. 

She might be said to waken up when the omnibus 
stopped, and the conductor called out “Park Lane.” 
She had been plunged in thought, and saw nothing. Peo- 
ple in the omnibus had looked curiously at the beautiful, 


86 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


pale lady who seemed so sad, and seemed to be so much 
out of keeping with the frame-work of an omnibus. A 
young painter who was in the omnibus said to his friend, 
after she had gone, that it was like seeing a Botticelli in a 
Tottenham Court Road furniture shop. 

The day was one of the most delightful of London 
summer days. The exquisite, tantalizing perfume of 
flowers floated from the park across Mary^s path; it was 
so sweet to her that the sense ached at it. She stopped 
for a moment and looked through the railings on the park 
side of the lane; looked fondly and sadly, as one gazes on 
some dear place which is never to be seen again. Mary 
was not thinking that she should never see the park again; 
it would have been a relief to her if she could think that 
she was never to see it again. What she felt was that she 
never could see it again under the conditions that made it 
bright for her. All that was over — absolutely over. Noth- 
ing could bring it back to her, because nothing could give 
her back her husband— the husband of her youth, and her 
love, and her faith. 

None the less was she resolute to do all she could for 
him; and so she turned and went her way. 

Roland Oliver had breakfasted, and had sent away his 
breakfast things, and was lounging at an open window 
with a newspaper in his hand, into the contents of which 
he plunged every now and then with the desperate air of a 
man determined to read or die. Then his mind wandered 
off and he fell into a pool of thought. Out of this he sud- 
denly scrambled and took to the dry high-road of his 
newspaper once more. 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


87 


He was thinking a good deal about how to get the 
Oaledons out of the Agar Street rooms, and into some 
lodgings in a pleasanter part of the town, nearer to him- 
self, and where they would be free of Lydia Church. He 
did not like Lydia Church; he did not like the way in 
which she seemed to flatter and flirt with and play upon 
Laurence*Caledon; he thought that her presence boded 
mischief somehow. But how to get the Caledons away? 
Laurence could be easily managed — but Mary? He actu- 
ally had a wild idea of talking it all out with Laurence — of 
prevailing upon Laurence to enter into a plot with him, 
and carry on a pious fraud wherewith to delude Mary, and 
get over her scruples. Why not invenj^an employment 
for Laurence — a secretaryship of some kind — which would 
occupy him a few hours in the day, and for which he was 
to receive, say, five guineas a week? Arranging, for ex- 
ample, the materials for an eminent author, who had 
undertaken a work which would keep him occupied for 
a considerable time; say a ‘‘ History of the World, or a 
“ Complete Exposition of the Codes, Laws, and Principles 
of Justice of all States, Nations, and Tribes?^^ Laurence 
could amuse himself at the British Museum for a few 
hours every day, and Roland could hand him over the five 
guineas every week. But then, Roland asked himself, 
would even this pious fraud be fair toward Mary? And 
he had to answer himself, no, it would not. He even 
asked himself, would it be fair to Laurence to tempt him 
with such a scheme? And again he had to answer, no, it 
would not. 

“It is very hard,^^ he thought, sadly enough, “ to do a 


88 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


kindly act for one’s friend in this queer, conventional 
world.” 

He was roused from his serious thinking and his sham 
reading by his servant coming to tell him that a lady 
particularly wished to see him. Could it be Lydia 
Church? He hoped not; but could think of no other 
woman who would be at all likely to favor hfm with a 
morning call. Anyhow, he must see her. 

“Show the lady in,” he said, wearily; and presently 
Mary Caledon entered the room. 

“ Mrs. Caledon — has anything happened?” 

“ You are surprised to see me,” she began. 

“ [Never mind^ how is Laurence?” he asked, eagerly. 

“ Laurence is quite well. He has gone to the Italian 
Exhibition; he does not know that 1 am here.” 

“ You have some bad news, I know. Do sit down, and 
let me know the worst.” 

“ It is bad news,” she said; “ but not in the ordinary 
sense, Mr. Oliver. I want to talk to you about my hus- 
band.” 

Can it be, Roland thought, that Lydia has been playing 
any tricks? But he only said, aloud: “Yes, Mrs. Cale- 
don, you can say anything you wish to me.” 

“ I know. I want to make an appeal to your good 
nature, your generosity, your friendship, on behalf of my 
husband and myseJf.” 

“ An appeal on behalf of your husband and yourself, 
Mrs. Daledon! Well, I think you can tell beforehand how 
the appeal will be answered. Only tell me what it is. ” 

“You have done him so much good already; you have 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


89 


given him back to health; now give him back to himself — 
give him back to me— to me!’" Her impetuosity startled 
the young man. 

“ Mrs. Caledon, I don’t understand you. We all seemed 
so happy."" 

“We are not happy; I am not; he is not. Between us 
we should soon make you miserable — as miserable as our- 
selves. "" 

“ Everything seemed to be going on so well. I was so 
happy to get back to my old friends— and to make a new 
friend, ’" he added, in a deferential tone. 

“Oh, yes; it all seemed so happy at first,"" she ex- 
claimed. “ I shall never forget those first happy days 
when 1 said you came like a Providence. Don"t you re- 
member?"" 

“ As if I could forget."" 

“ But things are different now,"" she said, sadly; “ and, 
you know, in any case it would not do for us to live on 
forever like paupers upon * 700 . Laurence takes it too 
much as a matter of course; I hate to see it. Don’t you 
see, Mr, Oliver, that your very kindness and generosity 
only enfeeble him, and make him rely on you altogether, 
and not in the least on himself? If you were a woman, 
and a wife, you would understand what I mean, and you 
would feel what I feel. "" 

“ I do understand it, quite,"" he said, in a sort of sooth- 
ing tone. ‘‘And I can put myself in your place easily 
enough, and feel what you feel. But, believe me, you 
exaggerate things ^ great deal. Laurence is a little weak 
yet; he has had a hard pull of it, and his nerve hasn t all 


90 


ROLAND OLIVER, 


come back to him yet. But he’ll be all right before long, 
and then he’ll go to work, and I’ll impel him instead of 
keeping him back. Why, we have long talks about it 
every other day, about what he is to do; and he seems as 
eager for it as you or 1 could be. ’ ’ 

“Yes, long talks;” and she shook her head. “lam 
afraid the long talks do him more harm than good. When 
he talks of doing a thing it is the same for him as if he 
had done it. Oh, I ought not to speak of my husband in 
that way to any one,” she cried, “ even to you. It sounds 
disloyal; it sounds as if I were finding fault with him, and 
I am not finding fault with him; only I want you, his 
friend, to help me to make him strong and independent 
and ready to face the world.” 

“ And so I will — so I will; but we must go slowly for 
awhile, and you see, Mrs. Caledon, I really shouldn’t know 
what to do with myself or my life, or — or anything, if 1 
hadn’t him to look after. Why, you have no idea what a 
pleasure it is to me. ” 

“ Yes; 1 know,” she answered, with tears starting to 
her eyes. “ I know how it delights you to do good; but, 
I must tell you— oh, it is so hard to have to say it — that 
you are not doing him good — and that you can’t do him 
good in that way, and you are not doing yourself good.” 

“ Oh, yes, indeed 1 am.” 

“ No, you are not. A man has no right to lead such a 
life.” 

“ Well, but you see I liave money enough; 1 don’t want 
to do anything in particular.” 

“ But you ought to do something. You have talents 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


91 


and education, and you are accountable for the use you 
make of your gifts — and think of the time you fritter 
away with him and with’ me.^’ 

“ Oh, fritter I The time passes delightfully for me/’ 

“ But that kind of life ought not to delight you.” 

“ What can I jdo?” 

“ Travel, study, write books, devote yourself to some 
cause, something — ” 

“Join the Crusaders — go out and fight the Saracens?” 
he said, with a melancholy smile. 

“Yes, why not? There are crusades to be fought still 
here at home. There are holy sepulchers to be recovered; 
there are Saracens to be fought — vice and ignorance and 
the poverty that comes of vice and ignorance, and that 
avenges itself by engendering vice and ignorance — there, 
go and fight against these Saracens. Oh, 1 am ashamed 
of myself and my heroics. Laugh at me, if you like — I 
wish you would, Mr. Oliver; for I am making myself 
ridiculous.” 

“ I sha’n’t laugh,” he answered, gravely; “ I don’t feel 
in anything like a laughing mood, and if I am any good 
for one of these crusades and for fighting these Saracens, 
I surely shall not be the less useful because I have two 
dear friends to advise me and to take an interest in my 
efforts. I don’t want to lead an idle life, Mrs. Caledon, I 
assure you; I should be delighted to be of some help to 
some good cause. But I honestly do not see why I should 
for that reason have to give up your society and Lau- 
rence’s. Tell me— tell me why, if I do the one thing, I 
must give up the other?” ^ 


92 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


Mary felt sorely tried. She could not tell him the 
reason why; she could not tell him the truth which had 
lately been forced upon her, that her husband ^s was a 
nature in which kijidiiess from an outsider only grows up 
poison plants. She felt that she was right in urging 
Iloland Oliver to leave them once and for all; that was to 
her a sacred duty from which nothing could relieve her; 
but she could not give him her reasons — her principal rea- 
sons. She felt, indeed, perplexed in the extreme. 

“ Mr. Oliver,’^ she said, “ I am driven to make an ap- 
peal to you — to your generosity, and your friendship — 

‘‘ Oh, Mrs. Caledon, any appeal from you — 

“ No; listen to me. You know how highly I think of 
you, you know how I value your friendship — now don^t 
you?^’ 

She stopped for an answer, and he had to say: 

“ Oh, yes; 1 do know.^^ 

“You know what a deep, and strong, and tender friend- 
ship 1 have for you. I never had a brother; but I am sure 
no brother could ever be more kind, and sweet, and sym- 
pathetic to his sister than you have been to me. And you 
know how I enjoy your society — don^t you know it?'^ She 
waited again for an answer, and he had to reply: 

“ You were always very nice to me, Mrs. Caledon. 

“Well, then,^^ she said, almost impatiently, “do you 
think 1 would tell you to give us up if I had not some good 
reason?’^ 

“No; I am sure of that. But you ask me to make a 
great sacrifice and you don’t give me any reason. ” 

“ Don’t give you any reason? Have I not told you that 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


93 


while you are there, a support to him, Laurence never will 
make himself independent.^ I think I can still influence 
him in*the right way, Mr. Oliver; but I think I must try 
it alone. 

“ Well,’^ he murmured, after a silence, “ 1 suppose 
there is no more to be said. You pass on me a sentence 
of banishment — 

“ 1 do — I do— -I have to do it. You will say some time 
that I was right. 

“ I say that now,^^ and he smiled a sweet, pathetic smile 
that sent a pang to her heart. ‘‘lam sure of it. I do 
not pretend to understand you; but 1 know that anything 
you say is right. Well, I will go into exile — for awhile; 
and then 1 will come back and fight the Saracens some 
day. Thou shalt praise me that day, oh, Caesar 

“ I praise you in advance, if I am Caesar; and 1 thank 
you, and I bless you. She spoke with a passionate 
energy which she could not wholly suppress. 

“ Tell me one thing, he said. “ Is Laurence to know 
of this.?’^ 

“ Oh, yes; he surely will know that you are going 
away. 

“ But I mean — is he to know that you have banished 
me?^" 

“ I will tell him later, not now, but later; it is only 
right. I will not have him think that it was any whim of 
yours. I will tell him all my reasons; and in the end he 
will say that I was right. I owe him an absolute frank- 
ness. 

“ Very well,^^ he said, after a pause, and with a sigh, 


94 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


“ that is settled; and that moan is soon made. I shall go 
abroad somewhere, and 1 shall leave you my address, so 
that if ever you want a friend you shall know wKere to 
find him. I shall come from the other end of the earth 
at a word from him or from you. I can^t but think it is a 
little hard, but what is the use of arguing the question?^' 
He felt a strange storm of pain and passion rising in his 
heart. The sense was new to him; he was shaken by it. 

“ No,^^ she said, “ there is no use.^^ 

“I thought to be able to make you both happy,” he 
pleaded, hardly knowing why he was trying to plead. 

“ You will make many people happy yet, 1 know,” she 
said. “ You will make some woman happy; 1 never knew 
a man better fitted for that kind work, Mr. Oliver.” 

What was the strange and painful sensation, quite new 
to him, that came up in Roland^s breast as she spoke these 
words in sweet and tender tone, half jest, whole earnest? 
In a moment he was enlightened; it was the flash of a 
revelation. Never, never before had he known what now 
was a terrible truth to him. He saw now his heart laid 
bare to himself; and with the revelation came the instant 
thought — she must never know. The one thing upper- 
most in the poor youth^s mind was the resolve that at any 
exercise of Spartan suffering he must keep all suspicion of 
that kind from her. He looked up — and oh, what an 
effort and a pain it cost him — into her face with smiling 
eyes. 

“ Very well, Mrs. Caledon; for the sake of that not im- 
possible ‘ she,^ I shall try to take care of myself when I go 
to fight the Saracens at home and abroad.” 


ROLAND OLIYER. 


95 


“ Then you will go?"^ she said; and a great rush of pity 
and pathos seemed to flood her heart. But her resolve did 
not give way. 

“ Oh, yes! I will go. 1 shall go and travel. I love 
yachting. I shall get a yacht, and live the life of a pir- 
ate, without the piiacy.’^ 

“ And you are not angry with me for sending you away? 
You forgive me? You understand me? Oh, please tell 
me that you do understand me — my motives, I mean, not 
my reasons? These 1 canT explain. 

‘‘Ido understand your motives thoroughly. And, Mrs. 
Caledon — he spoke with a sudden energy which his ut- 
termost caution could not keep altogether down — “ if it 
be any comfort to you to know it, I feel sure already, here, 
that you are in the right, and that I must go.’^ 

“ This is not absolute good-bye,’^ she said. 

“ Oh, no! 1 must come and tell Laurence, and talk to 
him. Only it is the close of a chapter, he said, with a 
smile which was lighted but by a wintery sun. 

“ Yes, it is the close of a chapter — a chapter which will 
never pass from my memory, and which has its hero, Mr. 
Oliver. Good-bye! 1 shall think well of the whole race 
of men because of you. 

“ And I shall think well of the whole race of women,” 
he echoed, “ because of you.” 

How plain it all was now to him! How coldly and 
cruelly clear! The naked, shuddering soul was revealed 
before him. Mary Caledon ^s harmless allusion to the girl 
he was to make happy had sent a pang through him which 
brought an awakening self-knowledge with it, as pain so 


96 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


often does. He had never before suspected anything of 
the kind; he had never known that his feeling toward 
Mary Caledon was anything more tlian that of strong and 
tender friendship. Now it was all made clear to him. 
Now he saw, only too plainly, why he had obstinately 
fought against his own gradual discovery of the true nat- 
ure of his old friend, Laurence Caledon. Again and'ag^in 
had he been on the point of admitting the slowly growing 
conviction of Laurence’s cruel egotism and absorbing self- 
ishness. And again and again he had driven the thought 
back, and mentally denounced himself for wronging his 
old friend, even in thought. Now he knew why all this 
was so. It was only because he could not bear the idea of 
losing the society of Mary Caledon. Oh, perhaps even 
fiction has not yet sounded the deeps of an honest and 
generous man’s capacity for self-deception! If Laurence 
was really the worthless creature whom Roland’s sus- 
picions sometimes described him, a parting of the ways 
must sooner or later come; and that would be, for him, a 
parting from Mary Caledon. He found the tears coming 
into his eyes as he thought of her; and then, as his mo- 
mentary impulse was to be ashamed of such weakness, he 
angrily asked himself who would not own to tears for such 
a woman— so young, so beautiful, so gifted, so capable of 
having and giving happiness, so misprized, so thrown away, 
so unhappy? 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


97 


CHAPTER VIII. 

ROLAND’S WHIM. 

Mary was gone. She would not wait while he sent for 
a cab for her; she would not let him come down-stairs 
with her. When she had gone the room seemed darkened, 
as a room is darkened when even the melancholy sunbeam 
of a wintery sky is withdrawn. In one sense, and one only, 
he felt relieved. He could think more freely now that she 
had gone; he could let his feelings flow. “ The close of a 
chapter!” he said to himself over again. “ The close of a 
chapter! And the chapter must remain closed — must 
never, never be reopened.” He had got into a false posi- 
tion, and there was nothing for him but to get out of it 
again with the least possible hurt or pain to — not to him- 
self, he was not thinking of that — but to others. First of 
all, what has to be done? Well, there are three things 
which have to be done. The real cause of his retreat from 
the tripartite partnership must never be known to Mary. 
The influence of Mary’s appeal over him must never be 
acknowledged by him, at least, to Laurence. Something 
must be done to help Laurence, after he, Roland, had 
gone, in order to enable Laurence thereafter to help him- 
self. These were, for the hour, the three “ categories ” 
over which the anxious brains of poor Roland were busy. 
It was well for him — he felt it even then — that he should 
have busy brains. The throb of their work would drown 
the sound of his beating heart. There was one comfort — 

4 


98 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


her last words of frank and friendly repjard for him showed 
that she suspected nothing. 

Roland suddenly remembered what Mary had said about 
her husband having gone to the Italian Exhibition. He 
had hardly attached any meaning to the words when she 
spoke them, but now they came back to him. “ I may as 
well go there as anywhere else,^^ he thought, “ and if I 
come upon him 1 will tell him at once, and have it over; 
and, anyhow, it will be something to do.^^ He felt now, 
more deeply even than Mary could feel it, that he must go 
away. But he was not thinking so much even of that as 
of how he could contrive to do something which might 
bring a little ease and brightness into Mary Caledon ^s life. 
What could he do? What was there to be done? 

He kept racking his brain with these questions while he 
wandered dreamily, looking at nothing, through ranges of 
stalls and mountains of soaps and spices. He passed with- 
out looking in, the door of one of the refreshment-rooms. 
But he did not pass unseen by a pair inside, a man and a 
woman, and his appearance startled them both as much as 
if it were not an appearance but an apparition. 

“ Roland Oliver!’^ Laurence said, below his breath, and 
looking blankly at the crimsoning Lydia. “ What the 
devil can he be doing here?^^ 

“ I would not be seen by him for all the world she 
said, her lips compressed. “ What would he say — what 
would he think?^^ 

“ I don’t see what harm you are doing, or what affair it 
is of his,” Laurence said, angrily, and very inconsistently. 

“ Stuff! I wish I hadn’t come. Look here; I must 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


99 


escape. Yes, please don^t argue; I must — I must! You 
run after him. 

Run after him?^^ 

Yes, of course; that^s the only way. Talk to him. 
Carry him off in some other direction, and give me time 
to escape. Go — go!’’ The alarmed Lydia all but bundled 
poor Laurence out of the place. 

So, then, this was what he had spent his day and his 
money for! He was only a person with whom Mrs. 
Church was ashamed to be seen in public! He never 
thought of the possibility of her having designs of her own 
upon Roland; designs strictly honorable — distinctly matri- 
monial. He knew so well of Roland’s dislike to her that 
it never occurred to him to think that Lydia might not 
know of the dislike, or might not despair of being able to 
cajole or conquer it. Therefore her alarm at the thought 
of being seen with him by Roland appeared to him simply 
an insult to his poverty and his position. All the same, 
he was very glad that Roland had not seen Mm with her. 

He had not much trouble in overtaking Roland, who 
was wandering on in a “ melancholy, slow ” sort of way. 

‘‘ I didn’t expect to see you here,” Laurence said. 

“ No, I am sure you didn’t; but I came here looking 
for you. ” 

“ My wife told you 1 was here?” 

“ Yes; she told me you had gone.” 

“ I wonder did she tell him anything else?” Laurence 
thought. - The mental question was quickly answered. 

“ But wliat a dreary sort of place for you to be wander- 


100 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


ing about all alone in, Laurence. Why didn’t you let me 
know? You’re not looking overwell either.” 

Laurence’s alarm had brought a little shock to his 
nerves, and he was looking the worse for it. Roland 
gazed at him with sympathy and with compassion. “ Have 
1, then, done him no good — but only harm — as she says?” 
he thought. 

“ I want to talk to you about something,” Roland said. 
“ Let’s go and have a cigar and a soda and brandy some- 
where. You know the place; I never was here before — go 
ahead!” 

Laurence led the way to some seats near a refreshment 
bar. Roland produced his cigar-case, and the soda and 
brandy soon foamed before them. Roland drank his off 
at a draught — a wholly unwonted performance for him. 

“ 1 am so thirsty,” he said. “ I must positively have 
another. ” 

“ You were going to tell me something, Roland?” 

“ 1 was, old boy — and 1 am. I’ll begin as soon as I 
have started my cigar and have the new B— and S — be- 
side me. Oh, here we are. Now then.” 

Laurence looked at him a little surprised. * There was a 
sort of roistering way about him to-day to which Laurence 
was quite unaccustomed. He seemed curiously excited. 

Well, it’s just this — I’m going away.” 

“ Going away! Where?” 

“ That I don’t know. Somewhere out of England. 
Round the world in a yacht I think, to begin with.” 

Laurence looked aghast. 

” Do you mean to be long away?” 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


101 


“ Dear boy, 1 havenH the slightest notion — yet.^^ 

“ This is a very sudden resolve, Roland. 

“ All my resolves are sudden resolves. I feel to-day that 
I ought to be doing something. I must — I must! I have 
been leading too lazy and happy a life of late, and laziness 
and happiness are no longer permitted to sinful man. 
Therefore comes my destiny, and claps me on the shoul- 
der, and says: ‘ Get up, you sluggard, and work; no more 
folding of your absurd hands to sleep. ^ ” 

“ Well, of course,” Laurence said, in faltering and hol- 
low tones of the deepest depression; “ of course, if you 
like it.” 

‘‘ My dear fellow, I donT like it! 1 would much rather 
stay at home with Mary and you. Where do you think I 
shall ever find such jolly good friends as Mary and you?” 

His manner perplexed Laurence. The very w5y in 
which he rattled out the words, ‘‘ Mary and you,” was 
odd. Laurence had never before heard him speak of her 
as “ Mary.” “ It’s all stuff what that little devil hinted,” 
he said to himself — the “little devil” being Lydia 
Church. “ He doesn’t care a straw about Mary in that 
way. She couldn’t hold him here, even if she were to 
try.” 

“ Then why, in the name of patience, do you go?” Lau- 
rence asked of his friend, in the tone of an injured man. 
Laurence spoke with the manner of one who meant to say : 
“ Don’t you know the inconvenience it will put me to if 
you go away and leave, me here?” 

“ Well, you see, as I said, it is Destiny. I have been 
looking at it — impelled to the inspection, I dare say, by 


103 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


Destiny — through two lights; the light of mood and the 
light of principle. My mood has changed toward England 
for the present; it will change back again, I dare say, after 
1 go abroad. That’s the mood; but then comes in the 
principle. ” 

Laurence was inclined to say: “ Curse the mood, and 
confound the principle!” But he did not indulge his in- 
clination. 

“Well, the principle?” he asked, grimly. 

“ The principle comes in this way: I have been living a 
life of idleness, and I have no right to live a life of idle- 
ness; it’s a sin and a shame. And 1 have been making an 
idler of you as well. I wouldn’t work myself, and I 
wouldn’t let you work. Fact is, 1 allowed myself to be 
merely selfish. I wanted companionship. I wanted to be 
amused by you and Mary — by you and Mary — and as I 
was idle, I must have you idle too; and there’s about the 
whole truth of it. ” 

Laurence was a very suspicious man, and, like most men 
of that order, very often suspected in the wrong place and 
in the wrong way. He suspected now that Roland was, 
for some reason, playing a part. What was the reason? 
Now, if he could only have allowed into his mind one 
flash of a suspicion that his friend was playing a part for 
an entirely unselfish purpose, he might have got at the 
truth soon enough. But it was not his way to suspect 
people of unselfish purposes. 

“ Why can’t you turn to and do some work here?” Lau- 
rence argued, sharply. “ What do you want to do?” 

“ Don’t you see that’s the very thing I have not yet got 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


103 


to know? I want to find out ray vocation. A man might 
try a public life — go into Parliament, or the County Coun- 
cil even, or lend a helping hand in some organized work to 
improve the condition of the poor, or anything. But I 
can^t think it out until I have had something of a change, 
and so my mind is made up. Ifil go away for awhile, and 
then I’ll come hack, of course, and turn to. Where’s 
my brandy and soda? Oh, yes. Have another, Laurence? 
You have had only one. ” 

“ No, thanks,” Laurence said, stiffly. “ How happy 
for you to be able to go away and consult your own in- 
clinations!” he added. 

“ Yes; I ought to be very thankful, I know. But 1 
dare say, Laurence, I should have made better way in the 
world if I had to begin without a sixpence, and work for 
my living.” 

“ Eich people talk in that way,” said Laurence, with a 
bitter sneer, “ when they want to reconcile poor devils to 
their poverty. But they can’t do it; they don’t take in 
the poor devils, and they don’t take in themselves. I 
don’t know why they should try, 1 am sure.” 

Eoland did not seem as if he had been listening to these 
remarks. He went off at a tangent. 

“Now, look at your wife!” he exclaimed. “Look at 
Mary Caledon! By Jove, she’s an example to you and me! 
She’s going in for a literary career because she can’t be 
idle, she says. And she has had no practice in literature. 
But she means to stick to it, and work it up, she says; and 
by Jove, Laurence, that woman will succeed!” 

“ Were you telling my wife about thisf* 


104 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


‘‘ About what?^^ 

“ About your going away. ” 

“ Oh, yes; I told her. I let it out somehow. She 
rather scolded me — so far as she can get in scolding, which 
isn^t very far, as you know. 

“ Scolded you for going Laurence asked, with a jar- 
ring harshness in his voice. 

‘‘No, oh, dear no; rather approved of that, I think. 
She scolded me for having led such an idle life, and done 
nothing; and she’s right — of course she is right. So I 
fancy she was pleased to hear of my resolve; anyhow, that 
is what 1 am going to do. So, Laurence,” he jumped up 
and clapped his friend on the shoulder, “ we must have 
some good times before we go. Sha’n’t we, dear boy?” 

“ I should think,” Laurence answered, with keen ill- 
humor in his voice, “ that would be but a poor preparation 
for the life of hard work — of downright drudgery, in fact 
— to which I shall have to apply myself after you have 
gone. But of course you will not allow that to affect you 
m any way. ” 

Roland’s heart was pierced by the words, and the look, 
and the reproachful voice, lie put his hand again upon 
his friend’s shoulder. 

“Dear old Laurence,” he said, tenderly, “did you 
really think I was going off to leave you to a life of 
drudgery? No, you didn’t think it. I have my whims 
and my selfish moods, but 1 am not like that. Why, that 
would be only to throw you back into bad health again. 
No, no; 1 have been thinking all the day how it can be 
best arranged for you, so that you should have enough to 


ROLAND ^Oliver. 


105 


be going on with. Look here, will you talk it over with 
Mary?^^ 

“ Oh, no,^^ Laurence answered, all too quickly; “ 1 
should not like to do that — at least she would not under- 
stand.^^ 

“ Perhaps you are right — perhaps I had better; we can 
think it over meanwhile to ourselves. Anyhow, 1^11 make 
that all right. And now, what about dinner? When, 
where, and how shall we dine; and where shall we go 
after? Shall we go back for your wife, or would she mind 
your having a bachelor day of it — just for cnce?^^ 

Laurence felt a little relieved, and was easily prevailed 
upon to go and take part in a very nice little dinner, with 
the champagne delightfully ‘‘ on ice. But he had had a 
terrible shock. At one moment it seemed as if the whole 
of his comfortable little world was shattering and crashing 
about his ears. Now he felt encouraged and almost satis- 
fied as to his prospects. But in his heart he was bitter 
against Roland. “ He’s tired of us, and that’s why he’s 
going,” he thought to himself. He was glad that Roland 
was going. He could not forgive the shock which had 
been given to his nerves by Roland’s abrupt announce- 
ment. He could not forgive Roland for what he con- 
sidered his purse-proud and patronizing ways; could not 
forgive him for being able to indulge his inclination to go 
abroad; could not forgive him for being rich; could not 
forgive him for speaking of Mrs. Caledon as “Mary.” 
“ Does he think we are no better than the dust under his 
feet?” he asked of his own soul in fierce self -torment. 

Still it was a great relief to him to know that he was not 


106 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


to be left uncared for; even though it made him furious to 
think that if Roland chose he could leave him wholly un- 
cared for. “ Why the devil should he he so rich, and I so 
poor?^^ 

He went with Roland after dinner to the play, all the 
same. 

What was Roland thinking of at the dinner, where he 
kept up such a display of rattling high spirits? Well, he 
was thinking, for one thing, that he had managed well in 
his way of letting out the news to Laurence. He could 
not help letting Laurence know that Mary had spoken to 
him on the subject, for she would tell him that herself 
later on; but he wanted to minimize as much as possible 
in Laurence ^s mind the influence of Mary^s advice. He 
wanted to forestall Mary, and to make it appear that he 
was determined to go away in any case, and that he had, 
therefore, hardly given any serious attention to Mary’s 
words. Roland did not relish even this much of pious 
fraud. He would rather — oh, how much rather! — have 
been frank, open, and altogether truthful, with Mary and 
with Laurence both. But suppose he was to be thus 
frank, open, and altogether truthful, what would it mean? 
It would mean that he must say to Mary: I love you; 
I am in love with you, the wife of my friend ; I have ac- 
knowledged this to myself, and therefore I must go 
away.” It would mean his saying to Laurence: “Yes, 
your wife has done all she could to prevail on me to go 
away, and to leave you to work for yourself; but it’s not 
for that I go away; it’s because I find I am in love with 
her, and dare not longer stay hear her.” 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


107 


So absolute truth being out of the question, Roland 
thought he had counterfeited well. He felt sure that 
Mary would have a bad time of it if Laurence believed that 
she had driven him away. He had saved her from that, at 
all events. Laurence would think she had talked with 
Roland about a plan on which Roland had already quite 
made up his mind — and that would be all. 

Mary Caledon was sitting with a book in her hand when 
her husband came home from the theater. Very likely 
she had not been reading. She had a good deal to think 
about — regret, pity, doubt, dread — perhaps even some little 
shadowy and flickering hope; and all this would come be- 
tween her and the letter-press on the page. She looked 
up when her husband came in, and met him with a wel- 
coming smile. 

I have been dining with Roland Oliver,^^ he said; “ it 
was a bad dinner for the place— and for the price, I dare 
say. Then we went to the play— a stupid play. Well, 
the dinners and plays are pretty nearly over now. 

Mary looked up inquiringly. 

“ Oh, you know,^^ he said; “ Roland told you — he told 
me he did. He’s going away. He’s tired of us — really 
tired of us at last. ” 

“ Did he say so, Laurence?” 

“ Well, dear, it would be hardly polite to say so; now, 
would it? But he conveyed it— he made it pretty clear. ” 

“ How did he make it clear?” 

“ Said it was a whim of his, that he wanted change, that 
it was one of his moods, that he couldn’t settle to any- 
thing until he had some variety and some amusement. 


108 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


Then he^s going to settle down and do great things — of 
course; we know all about that. Jove! how can a man 
be so selfish?” 

“ Laurence! Selfish? Mr. Oliver?” 

“Just so — Mr. Oliver. What could be more selfish 
than his whole way of going on? Took us up when he 
wanted amusement, drops us down when we donT amuse 
him any more. Why, what did he always lead us to ex- 
pect? Not this, surely. What is to become of us — what^s 
to become of me?” 

“ But, Laurence, my dear, we could not go on forever 
living on Mr. Oliver, as if we were paupers. When you 
were ill — oh, then it was different — then we could not help 
ourselves, then one did not mind. One took the bounty 
as one took the whole misfortune; it was all the will of 
Heaven. But now, my dear, you are so much better and 
stronger — and all owing to him, remember — we must 
never forget that — now we must work for ourselves, you 
and I; and we will, we will.” 

She laid her hands oil his shoulders while she thus 
pleaded in her earnest, pathetic way. She tried to look 
into his eyes as if to find there the light of that better 
nature that must be in him. But he kept turning his 
head restlessly away from her, and his manner showed an 
irritation that was not to be soothed by her. After a mo- 
ment he shook himself loose, not roughly, but resolutely. 

“ He might have given me some notice of his intention 
— so little time to turn round! Instead of that he springs 
it on me. What am I to do? I havenT any money to be 
going on with; you havenT any. He talks in his patro- 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


109 


nizing, lordly way of doing something for me; but of 
course he’ll forget all about it. Oh, I know him now; I 
didn’t before. Fancy — he throws us off and leaves us to 
starve, perhaps — just to gratify a sudden whim! Was 
there ever anything so horribly and hideously selfish?” 

“But why do you think it is to gratify a whim?” 

‘ ‘ Because he told me so — at least he implied it — again 
and again.” 

The truth shone in on Mary. “He has done that to 
screen me — to save me. ” She knew it. 

“ Laurence,” she said, very gravely, “ I can not allow 
Mr. Oliver to calumniate himself, no matter how generous 
his motives may be. He is not a creature of whims, and 
this is not a whim. He’s going away because I begged 
and besought him to go. ” 

“ You begged and besought him to go?” 

“ Yes, I did; because he’s doing himself no good, and 
us much harm. 1 see you sinking down to be a mere de- 
pendent, and yet I see you every day growing more and 
more suspicious of the very man whose bounty we are 
living on. Such words have passed between us — 1 mean 
between you and me — as never were exchanged between 
us before. Last night was the climax; I could endure it 
no more. I did not think it right for the sake of our 
lives, our future, our peace, our souls, that such things 
should 'ever be said and listened to again, and 1 went to 
him and begged him to leave us to ourselves — and to our 
fate.” 

She was trembling with emotion. He looked at her 
contemptuously. 


110 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


“ How like a woman^s vanity/^ he said. “ I am sorry 
to disturb the gratification of that belief in your power to 
do harm to your husband, and to drive his friends away 
from him. I don’t doubt your will, my dear; I only ques- 
tion your power. Roland Oliver did not care twopence 
what you said ; he hardly seemed to remember what you 
said; it passed in through one ear and out through the 
other. Ho, no; it’s all plain enough. He’s tired of us; 
he wants to be rid of us; he takes a whim for going 
abroad; and so — off he goes.” 

Thus Laurence settled the matter, and he chuckled 
scornfully over her supposed discomfiture. 


CHAPTER IX. 

GOADING HIM ON. 

Next morning Mrs. Church found herself tingling with 
curiosity to know whether Laurence had caught up with 
Roland at the Exhibition, and what had passed between 
them, and whether Roland had any suspicion of her pro- 
pinquity. She was afraid she had not behaved very well 
to poor Laurence. “ But what could I do?” she put it to 
earth, air, and skies to tell her. “ I couldn’t let Roland 
find me there with 7im.” All she was now afraid of was, 
that Laurence would have told Roland out of sheer spite 
and anger to vex her, and she felt that she must conciliate 
him a little; and she could not help exploding into small, 
sudden bursts of laughter at the recollection of his white, 
astonished, wrathful face, when she sent him packing after 
Roland. Yes — she must certainly soothe and conciliate 


/ 


ROLAND OLIVER. Ill 

him a little — always supposing he had not told any tales 
about her. So she sent up a dainty little note to him by 
the hands of Cora, and the note said: 

Do, please, come down to me. I want to see you. 

“L. 

Then Mrs. Church touched herself up at her looking- 
glass, and prepared to receive her visitor. The visitor 
looked sullen and glum. 

“ My dear Mr.^Caledon, I know you are angry with me 
— and I know I was very abrupt. But I couldnT help it. 
I couldnT. 1 don^t know what he would have said of me 
— or what people would have said of me. Why wasn't 
Mrs. Caledon there? people would ask — now wouldn't 
they?" 

“ Why didn't you think of all that before?" he asked, 
still unmollified. 

“ I know, 1 know — I ought to have; but I didn't think 
of it, and, of course, I was glad to go. Oh, there wasn't 
the least harm in the world in it, only he was always so 
particular, and people will talk so; and, you see, we are 
both of us young, and you are a married man, and evil 
tongues might make scandal out of it. How's your wife?" 

Oh, she's all right." 

“ She didn't mind?" 

“ Didn't mind what?" 

“Our going off to the Exhibition together in that way." 

Oh — she? Not the least little bit in the world." 

This was decidedly disappointing. Lydia had hoped to 


112 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


hear of domestic trouble and of jealous tears. She was 
annoyed; she regarded it as a slight to her. 

“ Had he any suspicion about me — Eoland Oliver?^^ 

<< No— not the least. He wasn^t thinking about any- 
thing of the kind. He could talk of nothing but his whim 
of going away.^^ 

“ Going away? Where — when — why?^’ 

“ I don^t know where — at once. I donH know why — 
whim, he told me. ” 

“ Do you believe that?^' 

“ I do — why not? Though I must say my wife doesn’t. ” 

“ I should say not— I dare say she has better reasons to 
know than you have.” 

This little thrust brought spots of angry red on his 
cheeks, whereat Lydia was pleased. 

“ What does your wife say about it?” 

“ Well, my wife, if you want to know, says that she 
strongly urged him to go away.” 

If Laurence had been a less self-centered, and more 
observant man, he might have been startled and shocked 
at the expression of rage and hate which showed itself for 
a moment in Lydia Church’s eyes. 

“ Your wife sent him away?” the little lady exclaimed. 

“ I didn’t say that; she asked him to go away,” he 
answered, sullenly. “ 1 can’t think what possessed her.” 

“ Stuff,” Mrs. Church said, contemptuously. “You 
mii^t know something about it. He told you, or she told 
you, something. Out with it — let us have it.” 

“ She told me that she asked him not to come here any 
more, and to go away. I did not ask her why; I guessed.” 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


113 


“ What did you guess?^^ 

“ Oh, well, we have had quarrels about him. She en- 
tirely mistook some little hints I gave her — about making 
herself more agreeable to him; I wanted him to be pleas- 
antly received and made happy, for he was so very good to 
us; but she mistook my meaning and she flew out in a 
passion. 

Mrs. Church broke into a scornful little laugh. 

“ And you really believe that was the reason why she 
sent him away? You really believe that?^^ 

“ Yes; I am certain of it.^’ 

“ Did it never occur to you that to do such a thing as 
that would only bring on a woman the very scandal she 
was wishing to avoid? Did it never occur to you that a 
woman would be afraid of being misunderstood by a man? 
Might not ‘ Go away, please, for I am afraid you will make 
love to me,^ sound to some men like ‘ Stay, please, and be 
good enough to make love to me?’ ” 

Laurence’s face grew dark. 

“ It would with some women,” he began. 

“It certainly would with me,” she said, with a little 
laugh. 

“ But not with a woman like her. You don’t under- 
stand her. I don’t suppose you could. ” 

“ Oh, no; of course not; she is one of your angelic 
order of beings; we ordinary women must not presume to 
think ourselves capable of understanding her. All the 
same, I do understand her; I read her like an open book. 
Shall I tell you what I read?” 

“ If you please,” he said, harshly. 


114 


BOLAND OLIVEK. 


“ It won’t please you to hear it, I fancy.” 

“ Go on,” he growled. “ Don’t mind about me.” 

“ Well, it’s this; ’twas not about him she was afraid, 
but about herself.” 

What do you mean by that? I don’t understand in 
the least what you are driving at. ” 

“ How very dull you are. Did 1 not say that she was 
afraid of herself? Is not that plain? You fool, she found 
that she was over head and ears in love with the young 
man, and that's why she sent him away.” 

He leaped from his chair with an oath. 

“ If that was true,” he cried, “ if I thought that was 
true, I would have her life. ” 

“ Bless the man, what a rage he is in now! and all for 
what? Because his wife is so good a woman that she sends 
her lover oft to the other end of the earth in order to put 
herself out of the way of temptation! Why, my dear Mr. 
Caledon, don’t you see that you have a model wife; a 
champion virtuous woman? I am not at all quite sure 
that if I had been in her case I should have been heroine 
enough to act on such a resolve.” 

The very thought of it is enough to drive a man 
mad.” 

“ The thought of your wife being so good?” 

“ The thought of her being in love with him.” 

“ Oh, come; there is nothing very surprising in that. 
He’s a very good fellow, and very attractive. / was in 
love with him once. You see he made a kind of idol and 
divinity of her — and you — well, you didn’t. You were 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


115 


not always very nice to her; and you were alwa; 5 /S sickly, 
and complaining, and grumbling — 

“You mean to tell me that she got tired of me — 

“Why, of course she did: tired and sick of you. 1 
wonder she didn^t get tired and sick of you long ago. But 
she^s a woman to do the right thing — that you may be 
sure of; and now that she has packed him off and finds 
herself out of danger, you may be sure she will stand by 
you and do her duty as a wife, and a British matron, and 
that sort of thing. Oh, yes; that 1 will say for her.^^ 

“ I will ask her! 1 will put it to her! 1 will have an 
answer from her — 

“ Well, and suppose she answers honestly, and says my 
idea is right — what then?^^ 

“ Then I shall let her know what she has done. She 
has robbed me of the only friend I have in life; a friend 
who was so useful to me. I shall have to starve now that 
I have lost him. She drove him from me, and all because 
she dared to fall in love with him. Hang it all,^^ he ex- 
claimed, savagely, “ if she must fall in love with him, 
couldnT she keep it to herself?’^ 

“ Exactly; and then he need not have gone away, and 
things would be satisfactory and comfortable all round. 

He looked up at her fiercely. He thought there was 
a mocking meaning in her words; as, indeed, there was, 
but she did not want to make it quite too plainly ap- 
parent. So when he looked at her he saw that her face 
was quite composed, meditative, even sympathetic. He 
turned away. 

“You had better say nothing about it,'" Lydia said. 


116 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


“ Let by-gones be by-gones, and start clear. The thing is 
done and can^t be helped. She has sent him away; you 
can^t bring him back. 

Why not? Why can’t I bring him back?” 

“ Because he won’t come. You may be sure she has 
pledged him to that, and has given him some good reason 
to believe that it is better for her he should go away and 
stay away. She has probably told him how she feels about 
him; that would give him some comfort, you know,” 
Lydia added, coolly. 

Laurence was writhing with agony. He was jealous in 
the most morbidly sensitive way. It was not the sort of 
Oriental physical jealousy of many men, which is allayed 
by the knowledge that no wrong has been done. It was 
the jealousy of egotism, of self-love, of mortified pride. 
It was enough for him to believe that his wife had ever 
thought of any one but him with love; that she had ever 
allowed any other man to find a place in her heart; that 
she had found it well another man should go away lest she 
should come to love him too much for her own peace of 
mind. He thought nothing of the virtue, of the high pur- 
pose, of the resolute purity; he felt only the pangs of his 
own hurt self-love. 

Lydia saw his torture and enjoyed it. But she had 
much more serious purpose in hand than the mere tortur- 
ing of unfortunate Caledon. She wanted to have a com- 
plete and final break-ofl between Roland and Mary. She 
blamed Mary for everything, and felt sure she never 
should be able to get Roland to marry her while Mary’s 
influence was over him. Her great chance, she thought 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


117 


now, was to work on Caledon^s jealousy, and compel him 
to keep his wife out of Roland^s sight. If Mary could 
only be taken away somewhere quickly, then perhaps 
Roland might remain in London, and she, Lydia, might 
take his heart on the rebound. Therefore, having estab- 
lished a flaw on the sensitive skin of Laurence’s self-love, 
she kept switching the sore place constantly and smartly. 

Laurence wandered about streets, and cafes, and drink- 
ing-bars all that night, and did not return home until the 
raw morning. Mary heard him stumbling and cursing 
about the sitting-room, trying for a lamp, trying to light 
it with a match, trying to get his boots off. This was a 
new and a ghastly experience for her. Even in Constanti- 
nople, when he got into money troubles by his gambling, 
and she had only saved him from expulsion from the court 
of law, and the club, and probable prosecution, by selling 
most of her annuity, and pleading and praying for him, 
and pledging herself to take him out of Constantinople 
forever — even then she had not known him to get drunk. 
About six in the morning she stole softly to his bedroom, 
which was only divided from the sitting-room by curtains, 
and she looked in. The sun was streaming in through the 
windows, the blinds were not drawn down, and there was 
the lamp still burning, and there was Laurence on the bed, 
disheveled, indeed, but fully dressed, asleep and snoring. 

She put out the lamp quietly, and then crept away. 
Her last hope of his restoration to better things would be, 
she felt, in allowing him to believe that she had not seen 
him in his drunken sleep. 


118 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


CHAPTEK X. 

THE ORDEAL. 

Mary went out early that day. She wanted to buy 
some trifling things, but she wanted also to be out of the 
way while Laurence was getting up and trying to pull 
himself together. She left a message for him, saying she 
would be back before long; but when she came back he 
had gone. He had, perhaps, only gone down to Mrs. 
Churches rooms, Annie said. Mrs. Churches maid had 
brought a note. 

Laurence had, in fact, gone to Mrs. Church’s rooms. 
He had been summoned by her in order that she might 
implore him not to say anything to his wife; to assure him 
that it would be a great mistake to let people know that 
he believed he had cause for jealousy; that people only 
laughed at a husband who proclaimed his jealousy; that 
such things were always best kept quiet; that, with a 
woman of Mrs. Caledon’s character, no actual harm could 
happen — oh, no; she was quite sure of that — and that, 
anyhow, it was all over now, and Eoland was going away. 
Thus she switched the raw with nettles, and drove the 
wretched Caledon nearly mad. And all the time his head 
was racked with the effects of his unwonted debauch. He 
left her in a burst of passion. 

Mary waited and waited through all that long, sad sum- 
mer day. She was sorry now she had not remained in- 
doors in the morning and had some speech of him before 
he went out. She would have tried to speak to him sym- 


ROLAKD OLIVER. 


119 


pathetically and tenderly. She had saved him by affection 
once before; she might save him by affection once again 
even yet. No matter how long she lives, she will not for- 
get that day. 

Laurence came in about nine o^clock in the evening. 
He was sober, there could be no doub about that; but he 
looked wild and ghastly. He repelled her approaches. 

“ Did you know that I came home drunk to-day — and 
dq you know why?^^ He did not wait for her answer. 
“ It was because I was driven half mad by what people say 
about you and Roland Oliver. 

“ Laurence!^' She rose to her feet. “ 1^11 not listen 
toyou.^^ . 

“ Are you in love with him?^^ Caledon exclaimed, and 
he clutched her arm. 

‘‘ Oh, for shame 

“ Did you tell him you were in love with hini?’^ 

“ The question is an insult — an outrage 

“ Answer it all the same. ” 

His fury taught her the need of self-control. 

‘‘ I never did, Laurence, she answered, quietly. 
‘‘ You are changed indeed to me when you could think 
of such a thing. Then she was turning away in tears of 
grief, and pain, and shame. 

‘‘ I must have this settled one way or the other, he 
said; “ and 1 will have it settled here, and now. l"ve 
been tormenting myself all day thinking this out, and now 
1 see my way. Come in here. ’^ He raised the curtains 
and motioned for her to pass into his bedroom— a room 


120 


KOLAND OLIVER. 


which he also used as a study. She obeyed in silence. 
He followed her in and let fall the curtain. 

“ Sit down and write to him — now, at once.^^ 

“ Write what to him?^’ 

“What I shall tell you. See — sit there. He pushed 
her toward the seat in front of his little desk. She looked 
at him with pathetically inquiring eyes. She was not 
afraid — at least, she was not afraid for herself — afraid of 
any act of violence; but she had a terrible thought that his 
reason was giving way. In any case, there was no good to 
be got by refusing to do what he wished. She sat at the 
desk, and took up a sheet of paper and a pen, and waited. 
Her hand did not tremble, but she felt chill and wretched. 

“ My dear Mr. Oliver — Laurence began. “No, that 
won’t do. People on such friendly terms don’t ‘ Dear 
Mister ’ and ‘ Dear Madame ’ each other, do they?” 

“ I don’t understand you, Laurence.” 

“ What do you say when you write to him?” 

“ I have never written to him but once — that first letter 
— you know of it. Oh, how I wish I had never written 
it!” 

“Yes, it was the beginning of trouble for you,” he 
said, with a sneer. “ When will the end of the trouble 
come, I wonder, and what will it be? "V^ll, when you 
wrote that letter, how did you address him?” 

“ I did not address him. I simply wrote what I had to 
say.” 

“Very good. Then don’t address him now, but simply 
write what I have to make you say.” 

“ 1 will do as you wish, Laurence.” 


EOLAND OLIVEK. 


121 


“ So kind of you! Thank you ever so much! Well, 
write this: ‘ I must see you before you go. Come as soon 
after you get this as you can. I shall wait until you come, 
and Laurence will be out. ^ 

She flung down the pen. 

“ ITl not write that,^^ she said, resolutely. 

“ You shall write as I tell you. 

“ No; never! Ifll not write that. Not if you were to 
strike me! Not if you were to stab me! Not if you were 
to kill me!^^ 

‘‘ But, for aught you know, I shall be out.^^ 

“ That doesn’t matter. That isn’t the question; you 
know it isn’t. I wonder that you could be so foolish, too. 
Do you really want Mr. Oliver to come here at once?” 

“ Very much indeed. A good deal depends on it, 1 can 
tell you. A good deal depends on it.” 

“ Well, then,” she said, composedly, “if 1 were to 
write that, he would not come. ” 

“No! Why not, pray?” 

“ Because he would know either that it was not written 
by me, or that it was written by me under compulsion. 
Mr. Oliver is a man of honor, and he knows that I am an 
honorable woman.” 

“ By Jove, I believe you are right about leaving out 
that clause!” he said. “ It might put him on his guard. 
See what it is to be a woman, and to understand these 
things! About the man of honor, and so forth, we shall 
see presently. We’ll leave that out; the rest will do. 
Now sign the letter. How do you sign yourself to him — 
‘ Mary?’ ” 


m 


EOLAKD OLIVER. 


“ I sign myself to him as I sign myself to every one — 
‘ Mary Caledon.' " 

With a firm hand she wrote the name. Her natural 
courage was coming back to her aid. 

“ Now," he said, call Annie, and let her take that at 
once to Roland Oliver. Send her in a hansom. Never 
mind about the'eighteenpence; perhaps we shall not miss 
it." 

Mary rang the bell, and gave the letter, the directions, 
and the money to the little maid, who was so bewildered 
by the unexpected lavishness in the matter of the hansom 
cab, that, as she would herself have put it, she did not 
know whether she was on her head or her heels. 

“ Now, Laurence," Mary said, quietly, when the girl 
had left them, “ I have done what you wished me to do. 
Will you tell me what you mean by all this, and why you 
want to bring Mr. Oliver here in this odd and roundabout 
way?" 

“Oh, yes. I mean to tell you all the why and the 
wherefore. Listen! I am determined, at any cost, to find 
out whether you are speaking the truth or not. " 

The flush of anger came into her face. 

“You are my husband," she said, bitterly, “ and are 
privileged to insult me." 

“ I am your husband, and am privileged to find out 
whether you are playing me fair or playing me false. 
Well, I am determined to find it out and be certain, at 
any cost. I’ll not pass such another night as last night’ 
again; it would be better to be in the infernal regions. 
So ITl make certain. When he comes I'll keep behind 


ROLAN^ 01 

this curtain, clos^o/'?(^/ y^u arc I hi p^^twr 

chair in the 1 4h|El2^v^!<^^ 

face as Ik, j ,o|<j^"4lf5ra that he says 

to yr and th ..<*y u 'b'ayi - ' I find that you at- 

,tf to put • 11*11 on his^Pard by the slightest glance, or 
:a^, oi: ►uo >, • ^ii^tlj^now that you have something to 
-1 f ,.i believe the worst. Now you under- 

h- h , ...u’r'"-’ 


n- V;, *^^er heart there went out the last lingering, 
-v,” : ay of love for him, or trust in him, or hope for 

■ } ;>(, moment before, and she was fearing that he was 

; iosii.t IS reason; now it would be a relief if she could 
thir.k nat he had lost it; that her husband was only a 
' madv ,n, and not an unbelieving and treacherous wretch. 

But lo; there he stood — cold, cruel, chuckling softly 
I; ovr r Js own cleverness and his own artifice. She was no 
.• alarmed; she could only feel contempt, 
y t' she said, “ you are laying this trap for the best 

1; .‘^factor a* man ever had; for the kindest and truest 

>; ffj jnd you ever had 

‘ Trap! Whereas the trap? My friend is innocent. 
? ju are innocent. 1 am only giving him and you an o})- 
{ )rtunity of showing that you are innocent. Traps are 
;■ {/".st^tdor the guilty."" 

; - What"s to come of this ordeal — this test?"" she asked. 


M • ' 

rj spo^^hfully. 

f : “HI find out that things are all right, then 1 shall be 
'^•^^atlsfied, and shall not suspect any more, and we shall be 
f -happy once again. 

Mary said; “ that can never be."" 



ROLAND OJAVER. 


Oh, yes! You ought to be very happy to 

be ^0 readily cleareS"%ji^ 

“ And look with love anh. triM. again to the husband by 
whom 1 was so readily suspected? ^^h, no! Try your 
tes^if you will; but you must accept the dtxtii^uences.'’^ 

’ “ Fm not afraid. What have I to 1^?^’ 

“ A wife^s love and a lyife^s trust; if yhii ha^rn not, in- 
deed, lost both already. \ 

There was silence for a moment. 

You have not asked me,^^ he said, “ what is to hap- 
pen in the other event 

“ In what other event?’ ^ ^ 

“ Well, of course, in the event of my having to come tcx 
the conclusion that my suspicions were not unfounded^’ ^ 
The pink light flashed behind the alabaster for a( 
moment, and^then went out. Mary turned from hiha. j 
“No,” she said; “ I have not asked, and I don’t want/ 
to hear. That supposition could have no possi^^ interest^ 
forme.” 

She was raising the curtain, and about to pass into thej 
little sitting-room. 

“ Stop a moment,” he said, roughly. “ I am going.! 
with you. I only want to put the lamp out. Here, 
hind the curtain, it must be dark, you know. Now, then, 
let us go. 1 don’t want to let you out of my sight, out of 
reach of my touch, for one single second until we Imye gone 
through with this. If you are to be cleared, you must be 
thoroughly cleared, and not a loop-hole left on which to 
hang a doubt about underhand communication, don’t you 
know? Putting suspected persons on their guard, don’t 


ROLAND OLIVER. 




you know? Such thiftgs have 
ly done — by women before^^gt-^i 

Oh, how she de^r^'' ■: Oh, . how could she ever 

have loved hmy^ ) ><.e(fhim! How could she ever, in 
those pas^T^l^s, jj^vb so completely forgiven him, and put 
him aga^ 'in his place within her heart! Now she 

saw'^^ow was all hope for such a nature. Yet in the' 
i:hV'cniel darkness of the present crisis, she began 
- ■ hei^ own way. 

Very well,^^ she said. “I shall only sit here and 
/ ' They were now in the little sitting-room. “You 

" e? n w^atch all my movements. 

“/Perhaps you would not nlind reading something 
_^oiid? We may have to wait some time.^^ 

Very well. What do you wish me to read?^^ 

“ Eead me,^^ he said, with insulting emphasis, “ that 
sage from ‘ Hamlet ^ in which he tells how he means to 
tch the conscience of the king. I’ll find you the vol- 

' He gave her the book; she opened it, and found the 
ace. " stretched himself back in his chair, with his 
dsv^lasped behind "his head, and he riveted his eyes 
ipon her face. His expression was as that of a tyrant 
vatphing' the torture of some victim from whom a con- 
r bission J^as to be extorted. She felt the rigid, cruel, in- 
J' (uisitirial gaze become almost insupportable. But she 
^ould not betray the slightest emotion. She read on and 
1 , not heeding what she read. 

Bu4denly their door-bell rang, and she started, but 




timid, unassertive 
iuiiphant 


It^of ^the 



quickly recover< 
sort of a peal, and she 

“ 1 see you started,^’ Laurence 
smile; “ are you getting frightened at 
ordeal being so near?^^ 

“ I have nothing to fear in the ordeal,' 

And that^s not Mr. Oliver; this must be Annie. 

“ So you know the very sound of his ring.^^^ 

“ A visitor never rings like that,^’ was her quiet answej 
Laurence reflected for a moment. The door must bf 
opened by him or by her. There was no one else wh^k _ 
would think of opening it. If Mary went down, she might\. 
give some secret instructions to Annie — if it was Annie— 

yi - ■■ 

and forewarn Roland, if it should prove to be Roland. If, . 
carrying out his threat not to take his eyes ofi her until ' , , 
after the ordeal, he was to make her come down with him, 
and it should prove to be Roland, or Roland should dash 
up in a hansom while the door was still open, the whole | 
game would be up. He stood irresolute for a moment, ^ 
and now it was Mary^s turn to watch his face. She knew f 
perfectly well the difficulty which was perplexing him^ and p 
in her utter contempt for him therd'was mixed up a kind 
of pity. - , I 

The timid, unassertive peal was repeated, perhaps half \ 
a tone louder this time. ' 

His mind was made up. Hll go/’ he said; “ you stay 
there. , 

So he went and presently came back again. 

“ It^s Annie; and I have told her that the moment ? 
Oliver cojnes he is to be shown up here to you. He w^ 


- llOLAND 01.1 VEE. ' . ' 127 

not in when she go' ^ ' i?' was expected soon. 
I told her I shonln'‘vwvj/-''ivlly be out, and I have left my 
hat and umbrella in the other room, where she won't see 
them. Now^tilen, Mrs. Caledon, let me feel your pulse — 
I am curious about your state of mind." 

A malignant gleam was in his keen, suspicious eyes as 
he went toward her. ‘‘ Heaven give strength to my 
nerves," was her inward prayer. He took her wrist and 
felt her pulse carefully. Its beat was steady, calm, and 
strong. She could hear’ the quick, irregular throb of his. 
He dropped her hand — almost threw it from him. 

“There's nothing inj^at. I have often heard," he 
said, “ innocence sometimes shakes with nervous fear, and 
guilt has the nerves of a bl^^ksmith." 

Suddenly a long, loud, rattling peal of the bell was 
heard — the ring of an anxious comer eage»=to be let in. 

“ Here he is!" Laurence exclaimed. “ Now, Mrs. 
Caleddn,' J^e shall know all. You just sit there, and don't 
move when he comes in; let him get quite near to you, so 
that I may see your face and his. Eemember!" 

“I shall remember all this," she said. The thought 
came into her mind: “ How should I feel at such a mo- 
ment, with such a trial before me, if 1 had anything to be 
found out?" Now she was absolutely without fear. 

Laurence had made his arrangements very cunningly. 
He set her chair far back in the room on one side of the 
hearth, where now, of course, no fire was burning. The 
bedroom, which was also his study, was originally used as 
a back drawing-room, divided from the front room by 
folding-doors; Laurence had the folding-doors removed. 


128 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


and their place taken hy the more artistic curtains. The 
wall on either side of the door- way had gone out a little to 
recei’ve the folding-doors, and now received the curtains. 
Mary^s chair was set close to the curtain at the end of the 
room furthest from the door by which the visitors came 
in. Laurence had ensconced himself close by in the corner 
of the study, with the last fold of the curtain just in front 
of him. He could hear every word spoken to or by Mary; 
he could, at any convenient moment, peer unseen through 
by moving the curtains ever so slightly, so as to give him- 
self a glimpse of the faces that were so near to his own. 

Mary could not forbear from one little thrust at her 
craven husband. 

“ Laurence!’^ She leaned back. 

“ Yes, yes; what is it?^^ he asked, in an angry whisper. 

“ If you let your heart beat like that, he must know that 
you are there. 

He growled, and then was silent. But she knew he was 
pressing his hands upon his heart. 

“ Mr. Oliver, ma’am!’' said Annie, opening the door of 
the sitting-room; and Roland entered, anxious, breathless, 
impatient, full of life, and energy, and sympathy. Oh, 
what a contrast! 

“ My dear Mrs. Caledon, so sorry I was out when your 
maid came; but I rushed here the moment I got your little 
letter. No bad news of Laurence, I hope? He isn’t un- 
well?” 

‘‘No, Mr. Oliver, he’s not unwell.” 

“ Oh, well, then; that’s all right. I am always so 
much afraid of the poor, dear boy having some sort of a 


ROLAND OLIVEK. 


129 


relapse; although Doctor Robson Roose — who has taken, 
really, no end of pains with him — tells me there is posi- 
tively nothing wrong with him anywhere/^ 

“ Laurence owes so much to you,^’ she said. 

“ Not a bit of it. He would have done just the same 
for me if I wanted it, and it were within his power. I 
know Laurence. Well, you wanted to' talk to me about 
him, that was why you sent for me?’^ 

“ Yes, it was because of him that I sent for you.^^ 

“ All right. He is out, I suppose? The maid told me 
he was.’^ 

Mary said nothing. No doubt he took her silence for 
acquiescence, and so he went on. 

“ I am very glad he is not here. I couldnT talk before 
him; he wouldn’t like it. I want to tell you frankly — 
you, the one who loves him best in the world — I want to 
tell you what I propose to , do for him. Some things I 
propose will require his consent and yours. One thing, at 
least, I can do in defiance of both of you. In fact, I have 
done it. I have made him and you Joint heirs to the 
greater part of whatever property I possess.” 

Oh, Mr. Oliver, no, no!” 

“Why, I’ve done it,” he said, with a smile, “and 
neither he, nor you, nor you and he together can undo it. 
But then, you see, it really doesn’t amount to much after 
all; for 1 shall probably live to be eighty years old. Still, 
as 1 am going to do a bit of travel, and, probably, even a 
bit of exploring, and as one never can tell what may happen, 
I thought I should feel more easy in my mind if I knew 
before anything did happen that the bulk of what I had 


130 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


would go to my two dear friends, and not to Mr. Chancel- 
lor of the Exchequer. 

Mary could almost have felt it in her heart to be sorry 
for Laurence, who had to hear all this. 

“ Mr. Oliver,^ ^ she said, earnestly, “ my prayer to 
Heaven shall be that I, at least, may never come in for 
this bequest; but you have my heartfelt gratitude all the 
same."’"’ 

“ Well, that's settled. That is plain sailing. Now we 
come to what's not quite so plain, but what can be made 
quite easy and satisfactory to every one, if you and Lau- 
rence will only be reasonable and agree. " 

‘‘ Tell me," was all she said. Jler heart was now be- 
ginning to beat pretty loudly. 

“ This is my idea. Of course I couldn't go away and 
leave poor Laurence to fight it out for himself unaided. 
He isn 't even yet nearly well enough and strong enough 
for that. You see that, don't you?" 

“Yes, Lsee that." 

“ Well, I know that he wants to be independent, and 
you want him to be independent, and so do I, Mrs. Cale- 
don — so do I. 1 don't want my old friend to feel too 
much under obligation to any human creature — even my- 
self. I have been thinking all that over, and here is my 
idea. 1 propose that I shall advance Laurence a trifle of 
money — a few hundreds — just by way of a loan, with the 
regular amount of interest attached; and the interest only, 
not the principal, to be repaid for the next three years, 
unless — Do you understand all this?" 

“Oh, yes, I think so. Unless — ?" 


ROLAKD OLIVEK. 


131 


Unless Laurence in the meantime should be in a posi- 
tion and should wish to repay it. Now these are my ideas, 
and I want you to put them to Laurence in the most fa- 
vorable way you can. For you see it is all very well to say 
that it is good for a man to be compelled to work hard. 
So it is, for a man who^s strong and indolent; but Lau- 
rence is neither. It would have been good for me, I dare 
say; but it would only make him break down altogether, 
and, by Jove, Mrs. Caledon, while you and 1 are to the 
front we^ll not let him break down. 

Mary felt very like breaking down herself. 

“ 1^11 tell Laurence, she began, and then found it hard 
to get on. 

“ Yes, tell him, and put it to him nicely. You see, 
something of the kind must be done. I am delighted to 
find that you receive my idea so favorably on the whole. 
Well, I haven^t much more to say. Oh, yes, I want to 
say that we must have a bright little dinner together, you 
and he and I, before 1 go, and that we must be awfully 
happy, and drink a parting toast to our next merry meet- 
ing, and then throw the glasses over our shoulders, so that 
they may never be profaned by any other toast/^ 

“When are you going?^'’ she asked, in a voice that 
trembled a little. 

“As soon as I can; the day after that dinner-party. 
Let Laurence fix it.^^ 

“ W/iereare you going?^^ 

“Egypt, to begin with. 1 don^t know where from 
that.^^ 

“But you will not be very long away?^’ 


132 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


“ Oh, no; not very long. The time will seem nothing 
in passing. I shall be back again before you have time to 
miss me. By the way, another thing I wanted to speak 
about. You ought to get into other rooms, not in this 
crowded place, in some quarter where you could have a 
breath of air; and tell Laurence from me, in case I 
shouldnT have an opportunity, that I wouldn’t have much 
to say to that little woman below— Lydia Church.” 

“ I confess I don’t much like her,” Mary said. 

“ Oh, no; I know her. She is a selfish little woman, 
and a treacherous little woman, and a mendacious little 
woman. Why, she began to tell me things about Lau- 
rence himself, of which I didn’t believe one single word, 
and 1 told her so, pretty plainly, and I wouldn’t let her go 
on. Stop — is not that some noise in the other room, be- 
hind the curtain?” 

Mary certainly thought she had heard a noise as of 
shuffling or creeping. But it will be readily understood 
that she was not inclined to allow Roland to turn his at- 
tention in that direction, and so she answered a little 
abruptly that there could be nothing — that it was of no 
consequence. 

Well, 1 think I have said all I want to say. Is there 
anything you want to say to me, Mrs. Caledon?” 

“No; except that I am grateful, and that I believe you 
are the truest friend a man ever had — or a woman either!” 

“ Thank you,” he said, and he took her hand. “ Good- 
night.” Perhaps if he had not been in love with her, if 
he had not known that he was in love with her, he would 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


133 


have raised her hand to his lips; as it was, he simply took 
it in his, released it, and went his way. 

Mary remained in her chair, silent, half-stupefied. 
Then she roused herself, and without looking round called : 
“ Laurence 

There was no answer. 

‘‘ Laurence she called again, almost sharply this 
second time. Still there was no answer. 

She sprung up and threw back the curtain. She could 
see no one. Then she took the lamp from the sitting- 
room table and passed between the curtains, her heart 
seeming to stand still with the fear that she was about to 
see some shocking sight. No — there was nothing; Lau- 
rence was not there; his hat and umbrella were not there- 

She rang the bell and questioned the maid. Yes, Mr. 
Caledon had gone out only a few minutes before Mr. Oliver 
went. Annie had thought Mr. Caledon was out all the 
time, she said; and was surprised when she saw him going 
down the stairs. 

Marys’s heart was full to overfiowing, but the sudden 
alarm about Laurence checked the overfiow. She soon, 
however, settled herself down to the conviction that to- 
night was to be a repetition of last night, and that, stricken 
with shame and remorse, Laurence would wander about 
the streets, and perhaps drink, and come home late. Sad 
and dreary prospect if the nights were often to be like 
that. But even from this dismal questioning her mind 
went back to the dear, dearest friend, whose deep, sweet, 
sympathetic voice seemed to be still sounding in her ear; 
the friend who was going into exile because she asked him 


134 


llOLAKD OLIVEK. 


to go — for hor sake— and she thought how happy beyond 
all women will be the one woman he will love and marry, 
and she prayed to God to bless them both. “ And, oh! 
He will bless them,^^ she said; and then her heart over- 
flowed, and there came a rush of tears. 


CHAPTEE XL 

LIFE AND DEATH. 

When Eoland left the house in Agar Street, he wan- 
dered down Whitehall and Parliament Street, and then 
turned off to the Embankment. The light was burning 
over the Clock Tower in Westminster Palace, the House 
of Commons was sitting. Eoland had never been any- 
thing of a politician; but now for the moment it occurred 
to him that it must be a great thing to merge one’s inter- 
ests, to lose one’s individuality-dn the grand struggle for 
some political cause in which one had faith and hope; even 
to lose one’s personal yearnings and disappointments in 
the mere strife of party. For indeed the poor youth felt 
much at odds with fortune now. He had been hit hard — 
very hard — and he could not tell of his wound — could not 
have the sympathy of any one — could not even admit that 
he had been wounded. His trouble was so hopeless, that 
even if the high gods were to give him the power to realize 
any one wish, however wild, it did not seem that he could 
be much the better for that. He could not wdsh that the 
wife of his friend should be in love with him — he could not 
wish that his friend was dead — nor could he even wish the 
past all blotted out. Oh, no, no — not that — anything but 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


135 


that / He could not face the future without the memory 
of Mary Caledon. The mere thought of her friendship 
was something to live for. 

One special source of satisfaction he found amid all his 
troubles in the conviction that he had played well his 
Spartan boy part, and that Mary Caledon knew nothing-^f 
what was gnawing at his heart. He felt a little proud of 
himself for having been able to accomplish that feat; but 
it was as well, he thought, that he had not to play the 
part many times more in the near future. He was pro- 
foundly disappointed and humiliated by the break-down of 
his grand scheme for making the Caledons happy. He 
had not made them happy; and he had made himself very 
unhappy. He had seen with his own eyes that poor Lau- 
rence was deteriorating in character and temper day after 
day. Mary was right; he had better break off and go 
away, if only for that reason, and that, alas! was not his 
only or his chiefest reason. He felt his heart torn with 
pity for his old friend, whom he had striven so much to 
help so hopefully at the beginning. How well it had all 
begun, and how badly it had turned out! Well, it would 
be something if he could still, from a distance, be allowed 
to give them a helping hand. Mary would always feel 
kindly to him; and perhaps some time he should come 
back again, and find them prosperous and happy, and they 
should all be friends and comrades once more. 

But not soon, not for a long time. He was determined 
in his own mind that he would stay away f roni London un- 
til the wound in his heart should be nearly healed. He 
thought of taking up African exploration; he thought of 


13G 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


going to India^ and finding something to do there; or go- 
ing on through China and Japan to Australia^ and settling 
there; or to the United States, and trying what active life 
was like there. Anyhow, he would bear in mind Mary’s 
injunction, he would not lead an idle existence any more, 
he would not live in vain. 

He did not know how long he had been wandering thus, 
up and down the Embankment — up and down — until he 
became conscious that the place was growing silent. Soon 
he heard the solemn tones of Big Ben clang out with proc- 
lamation of midnight. Near Waterloo Bridge he turned 
on hearing the sound, and he looked up at the Clock 
Tower with its plume of fire. All along the benches of 
the Embankment, and in some places along the stone 
pavement itself, were creatures huddled up for their 
night’s sleep — creatures who, it must be supposed, had no 
other bedrchamber accommodation. 

“ I wonder if the legislators perchance are legislating 
about that/* Roland asked himself, stirred for a moment 
out of his own personal troubles. “ 1 wonder do they ever 
think about that? This is a great country, we are always 
telling ourselves. Is it a great country, with that sort of 
thing going on in every city and town in the land? And 
that is nothing, oh, nothing at all compared with what one 
might see every night for the looking in other quarters of 
London, in some parts of every great town. ” , 

He thought of finding some one of the outcasts who was 
not asleep, and trying to talk with him, and find out what 
his own individual trouble was, and whether he had any 
ideas to contribute as to the causes and the meaning of the 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


137 


more general trouble. While he was looking about for an 
opportunity, a man got up from one of the benches and 
began to move or stagger slowly, undecidedly, eastward — 
toward Blackfriars Bridge. He was only some yards ahead 
of Roland when he started, and Roland would soon have 
caught up with him, but that, on coming nearer, he 
fancied, by the unsteady, swaying movement, that the 
man was drunk. So Roland slackened his pace and 
looked after the staggerer. Somehow, it did not seem 
quite like drunkenness; it was more like weakness or sick- 
ness. The night was soft and warm; the moon was cov- 
ered by clouds; the river was full and swift and was rush- 
ing by the Embankment, almost, one might have fancied, 
within touch of the wayfarer^s hands. “ What a tempta- 
tion to suicide — such a full, flowing tide, so easily reached ! 
No desperate, headlong plunge — no deep, dreadful fall — 
only to lay one^s self on the river and be carried away to 
death This was what Roland was thinking — not about 
himself; he had far too robust and unselflsh a nature to 
dream of escape by death’s portal so long as he could be of 
use on earth to any one or anything. But those unfort- 
unates on the benches and the pavement, this swaying, 
staggering creature yonder — drunk or sober, it matters 
not — what a temptation just now to them, to him, to seek 
a refuge from their hopeless earthly life in that near and 
swift-flowing river! 

Roland had allowed the swaying man to get well ahead 
of hmi, and, perhaps, would have turned the other way, 
but for a sharp cry of despair — for so it sounded — which 
came suddenly to his ears. It came from the man he had 


138 


EOLAND OLIVER. 


been following, and who now suddenly stood still and sent 
out that one unearthly cry. It was not the scream of pain 
or the yell of auger, but only the heightened and pro- 
tracted groan which proclaims that all is given up, that all 
is over. Then, before Eoland had time to rush at him 
and grip him, the unfortunate man scrambled over the 
low wall and tumbled himself into the river. 

Eoland ran to the side and looked over just as the splash 
of the water proclaimed that it had received the victim. 
He glanced for half a second up the Embankment, and 
down; there was no help near at hand. The sleeping 
wretches on the benches were apparently sleeping still. 
They would not have heeded the cry, and the river being 
so high up the bank the splash would not have made much 
sound. Besides, it was not likely that any of them could 
be of the slightest use in any case. Eoland was waiting to 
see where the man in the stream would rise to the surface. 
Nothing was to be done until then. He held his breath; 
minutes appeared to go by instead of seconds. He had 
noticed that the man was of slender build; he must be very 
light of weight, and Eoland felt little doubt that, with 
proper care, he could keep up until help should come. 

Eoland was a strong, a practiced, and a skillful swim- 
mer. He had always loved the exercise; it had been his 
favorite craft, and he had been trained in many rivers, and 
got the best experiences of many sea-coasts, and he had 
saved life more than once, under conditions ever so much 
more hard and perilous than were around his venture this 
soft, summer night, in the middle of London. So he 
waited for the right moment, fearless, and confident. 


ROLAiq-D OLIVER. 


139 


The tide was running to the sea; and of course Roland 
had rushed at once to a position below the spot from 
which the man had flung himself in. There! see! He 
comes up. A face, and head, and shoulders are positively 
shot up out of the water. A pale, ghastly face, with eyes 
that blink wildly out of the river-drops showered down 
upon them from the drenching hair, a mouth that strives 
to open and cry out, but is instantly filled, and gagged, 
and choked by the futile splashing of the clutching hands; 
and Roland, recognizing the face of Laurence Caledon, 
lets himself drop softly into the water. Softly — as softly 
as ever he can — he descends, so that he may not splash too 
much his struggling friend; and just as Laurence is about 
to sink beneath the surface again, Roland has him firmly 
gripped by the hair. Things seem so safe that Roland is 
almost cheery. Aha, would you — would you!’^ he says. 
‘‘ Oh, but you donT, though !^^ 

Laurence opens his eyes, and, recognizing him, gurgles 
out: Oh, Roland, Roland, save me! save me !^' and he 

tries to clutch at and cling round the man who would 
rescue him. 

“ All right, Roland calls out in encouraging tones, 
although Laurence drags him for half a moment down un- 
der the water, and the cooling Thames gets into his mouth. 
“ DonT cling to me, Laurence, and ITl save you — but — 
another drag down — “ if you cling to me — youfil — drown 
us — both.^^ Then Roland shut up, resolutely acknowl- 
edging the fact that, as revolutionary orators sometimes 
say, “ the time for talking is past — the time for action is 
come.^^ Roland's idea of action now was to put a hand 


140 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


under the back of Laurence^s head, holding the head 
firmly, and keeping the face upturned and out of the river, 
while he swam gently with the other hand, or merely trod 
water, and peered about him to see whether help was near. 
This would be plain sailing, easy work, if Laurence would 
only let himself float and submit to be towed along. 

The weather was so warm and soft, that even at mid- 
night the water was not very cold, and Eoland felt sure 
that long before the chill of the river could ha^e much 
effect upon either of them, rescue would have come in 
some way. At first, indeed, he was taking the whole 
situation rather too easily, not seeing much real danger in 
it, and only conscious of a vague, wild wonder and glad- 
ness that he should have been upon the spot just in time. 
He was too actively engaged in the present, however, to be 
able to go back even so short a distance into the past as to 
wonder why Laurence should have flung himself into the 
Thames. 

Did Eoland cry out for help? Indeed he did not. He 
was up to his business too much; he knew a trick worth 
two of that. He had no idea of idly wasting his breath — 
that limited stock of breath which is the imperiled swim- 
mer’s main treasure — he had no idea of tearing his lungs 
with a vague shout addressed to the general public of Lon- 
don. The moment he comes within hail of a ship, or a 
moored steamer, or a barge, or a pier, or a bridge, it is 
his resolve to make the welkin ring; but he certainly 
would not waste a shout; only one who has been in such 
straits knows the physical cost of a shout. Why, for one 
thing, it plumps you down under the water the moment 


HOLAND OLIVER. 


141 


you have got it out of your lungs, and EolancI could not 
risk many plumps into the water, considering the burden 
he was bearing. His first idea was to make for one of the 
iron rings that hang at intervals along the quay-sides of 
the Embankment, and hold on securely there until help 
came. And now he saw one clearly a few feet ahead of 
him, and he and his burden were only a few feet from the 
quay. Lifting Laurence^s head a little more — Laurence 
so far had been doing wonderfully well — he struck out a 
strong, bold stroke, and made for the iron ring. But Lau- 
rence suddenly gave a wild scream and clutched at Eo- 
land, and clung to him, and they both went down below 
the surface, and the river raced with them far beyond the 
point for which Eoland had made. Just then the river 
took a sudden bend, and there was the rush of a current 
sweeping downward and out; and, when Eoland next 
lifted his head above the water, he saw, the moment he 
could shake the drops from his eyes, that they were in 
midstream. He lifted Laurence^s face above the water 
again, and tried to shake himself free of the affrighted 
creature^s arms and legs. He cried into Laurence^s ear 
that if he would let go they would be perfectly safe; that 
if he would not let go they must both be drowned. In 
vain! Laurence had no ears or senses now. He screamed 
when he could get his mouth free of water; he clung to 
Eoland; he cried out: “Oh, Eoland! sa% saM^^ which 
was the best attempt he could make at “ Oh, Eoland! save 
me! save me!” He grappled with Eoland meantime, 
fought fiercely with him, and was no more to be shaken off 
than Victor Hugo^s octopus. Probably when he lay so 


142 


ROLAND OLIVER. 


impassive . and quiet, on Eoland^s first seizing him, he had 
become, for the moment, quite unconscious. But now he 
had his senses just enough to let loose the passion of fear; 
not enough to control it. 

Koland tried hard to keep his wits about him and to 
take things coolly; but he felt that the business was get- 
ting very serious; his strength must give out in a few mo- 
ments or seconds more; the end must come soon. He felt 
his arms relaxing as Laurence’s desperate clutch grew 
tighter and fiercer; there seemed nothing for them but to 
go down together; and just in that moment came up in 
his reeling brain the thought that life had been very sweet 
to him. 

But he recalled all his wandering energies in a moment, 
for he saw some great, dark object bearing down upon 
them. Then at last he summoned up all his strength of 
lungs and voice, “ and from his lips there burst a mighty 
cry.” But the barge — for a barge it was — dropping 
rapidly down with the stream, pushed at them heavily, 
rather than struck them, with one of her sides, and Ro- 
land felt as if they were being sucked down into some 
vague, cavernous depths of dripping darkness; and then, 
somehow, the whole story seemed to come to an end for 
him. 

The men in the barge had them out of the river in a 
moment, and had their dripping clothes off, and rolled 
them in blankets and rough coats. Roland was, to all 
appearance, the greater sufferer of the two, for he had 
been badly hurt by the barge on the head and shoulder. 
But Roland was strong and full of life, and by early morn- 


KOLAND OLIVER. 


143 


ing he was on his feet again, and ready for anything. In- 
deed, the moment he became conscious — he had lain for 
some hours absolutely unconscious — he was ready for any- 
thiug. The first question he asked was about his friend. 
Well, the news was bad; the poor gentleman was very 
weak and exhausted, and seemed not quite conscious like. 
He kept asking for his wife to be sent for, and saying he 
had killed his best friend. So they moored the barge, and 
got in a doctor; and the doctor was very kind, and had 
him taken to an hospital; and very like he would get better 
there soon. 


CHAPTER XII. ‘ 

LATER ON. 

Laurence did get better — much better — very soon; for 
he died. 

Roland never again saw him alive. There had just been 
time to send for Mary Caledon when Laurence recovered 
his senses enough to be able to give her name and ad- 
dress. She was with him at the end. He left with her a 
sweeter, tenderer memory of him than she might perhaps 
have ventured to hope for. He became more like what he 
was in their early married days before he had yielded to 
Temptation and been soured by deserved disgrace, and 
made egotistic by ill-health, and bitter and anxious by 
poverty. He left a message with her for Roland — if Ro- 
land should be living— and he told her that if Roland was 
""dead he had died in trying to save the life of an ungrate- 
ful and worthless friend. 


144 


KOLAND OLIVER. 


“ Oh, no, no,^^ Mary sobbed, as she bent over him. 
“Not worthless ever, and not ungrateful now/^ She 
broke down in tears. 

“ Thank you, Mary,^^ the dying man said. “ I think 
you are right — not worthless and ungrateful — any more. 

Mary never went hack to the house in Agar Street. Eo- 
land came to her in the hospital where her husband’s 
corpse was still lying, and he took charge of everything 
for her. And the physician of the hospital found a quiet 
lodging for her near Eegent’s Park. There she will try to 
add a little to her little income by writing; her needs 
would not be great. It seems almost superfluous to say 
that Poland did not offer to give her any help in the way 
of money. But he had all the Agar Street things sold off 
for her, and that gave her a little sum to start with. 

He did not ask her why Laurence had tried to drown 
himself, and she did not tell him then. She gave him so 
much of Laurence’s message as was expressive of Lau- 
rence’s gratitude; but the rest she kept to herself — for the 
time. Only for the time, however. She will think it 
right to tell him ali — later on. 

Later on! Many things may happen later on, of which 
there is no speech or even thought with these two just 
now. Eoland will go abroad — that seems to him best; 
but he will return — later on. 


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62 The Executor 20 

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229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

236 Which Shall it Be? 20 

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490 A Second Life ... 20 

564 At Bay 10 

794 Beaton’s Bargain 20 

797 Look Before You Leap 20 

805 The Freres. 1st half 20 

805 The Freres. 2d half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 1st half 20 

806 Her Dearest Foe. 2d lialf 20 

814 The Heritage of Langdale 20 

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900 By Woman’s Wit 20 

997 Forging the Fetters, and The 

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1054 Mona’s Choice 20 

10.57 A Life Interest 20 

1189 A (’rooked Path 20 

1199 A False Scent 10 

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194 “So Near, and Yet So Farl’’.. 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

481 The House That Jack Built... 10 


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96 Erling the Bold 10 

172 Gascoyne, the Sandal-Wood 

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776 PSreGoriot 20 

1128 Cousin Pons 20 

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787 Court Royal 20 

878 Little Tu’penny 10 

1122 Eve 20 

1201 Mehalah: A Story of the Salt 
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986 The Great Hesper 20 

1138 A Recoiling Vengeance 20 

Basil’s Works. 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

585 A Drawn Game 20 

Anne Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea 20 

199 The Fisher Village 10 

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97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

230 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 In Luck at Last 10 

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651 “ Self or Bearer ” 10 

882 Children of Gibeon 20 

904 The Holy Rose 10 

906 The World Went Very Well 

Then 20 

980 To Call Her Mine 20 

10.55 Katharine Regina 20 

1065 Herr Paulus: His Rise, His 

Greatness, and His Fall 20 

1143 The Inner House 20 

1151 For Faith and Freedom 20 

M. Betham-Edwards’s Works. 

>78 Love and Mirage; or,The Wait- 
ing on an Island iO 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories 10 

594 Doctor Jacob 20 

J02« Next of Kin— Wanted 20 


William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachting Ro- 
mance 10 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane 20 

126 Kilmeny 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness 10 

627 White Heather 20 

898 Romeo and Juliet: A Tale of 

Two Young Fools 20 

962 Sabina Zembra, 1st half 20 

962 Sabina Zembra. 2d half 99 

1096 The Strange Adventures of a 

House-Boat 20 

1132 In Far Lochaber ^ 

1227 The Penance of John Logan . . 20 

R. D. Blackmore’s Works. 

67 Lorna Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half ^ 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 
Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 

615 Mary Anerley ^ 

625 Erema; or. My Father’s Sin.. 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. 1st half 20 

630 Cradock Nowell. 2d half 20 

631 Cliristowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20 

632 < 'lara Vaughan 20 

633 The Maid of Sker. 1st half... 20 

633 The Maid of Sker. 2d half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. 1st half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. 2d half 20 

926 Springhaven. 1st half 20 

926 Springhaven. 2d half 20 

Miss M. E. Braddon’s Works. 

35 LadyAudley’s Secret 20 

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74 Aurora Floyd 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 

1.53 The Golden Calf . 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon lO 

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263 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1884. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

434 Wy Hard’s Weird 20 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Parti 20 

478 Diavola; or. Nobody’s Daugh- 
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480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
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487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 .Toshua Hag^gard’s Daughter... 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 


496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

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498 Only a Clod ^ 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

529 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County ; or, Grace 

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552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte's Inheritance. (Se- 

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557 To the Bitter End 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20 


561 Just as I am ; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Jlarchmont’s Legacy 20 

618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
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E. Braddon 20 

840 One Thing Needful; or, The 

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881 Mohawks. 1st half 20 

881 Mohawks. 2d half 20 

890 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
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E. Braddon 20 


943 Weavers and Weft: or, “ Love 

that Hath Us in His Net ” 20 

947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 
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947 Publicans and Sinners; or, 
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1036 Like and Unlike 20 

1098 The Fatal 'I’hree 20 

1211 The Day Will Come 20 


Author of “Dora Thorne.’’ 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 20 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Among.st Women — 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed by Love; or. Love’s 

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76 Wife in Name Only; or, A 

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79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lvnne’s Choice 20 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms. 20 
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220 Which Loved Him Best? 20 

237 Repented at Leisure. (Large 

type edition) 20 

967 Repented at Leisure 10 

249 “Prince Charlie’s Daughter;” 

or. The Cost of Her Love 20 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

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254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime ; or, Viv- 
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287 At War With Herself 10 

923 At War With Herself. (Large 

type edition) 20 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight; or. 

From Out the Gloom 10 

955 From Gloom ro Sunlight; or. 
From Out the Gloom. (Large 
type edition) 20 

291 Love’s Warfare 20 

292 A Golden Heart 20 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

948 The Shadow of a Sin. (Large 

type edition) 20 

294 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or. 

Lady Hutton’s Ward 10 

928 The False Vow; or, Hilda; or. 
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294 Hilda; or. The False Vow; or. 

Lady Hutton’s Ward 10 

928 Hilda; or. The False Vow; or. 
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type edition) 20 

295 A Woman’s War lO 

952 A Woman’s War. (Large t 5 'pe 

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296 A Rose in Thorns 20 

297 Hilary’s Folly; cr. Her Mar- 

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953 Hilary’s Folly; or, Her Mar- 

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299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Bevond Pardon 20 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 20 

323 A Willful Maid 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation. 

(Large type edition) 20 


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TIIE SEASIDE LIBTl ARY— Pocket Edition. 


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470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins; or, Married 

in Haste 10 

516 Put Asunder; or. Lady Castle- 

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576 Her Martyrdom 20 

626 A Fair Mystery; or, The Perils 

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741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or, 
The Romance of a Young Girl 20 
745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
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792 Set in Diamonds 20 

821 The World Between Them 20 

853 A True Magdalen 20 

854 A Woman's Error 20 

922 Marjorie 20 

924 ’Twixt Smile and Tear 20 

927 Sweet Cymbeline 20 

929 The Belle of Lynn; or. The 

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958 A Haunted Life ; or, Her Terri- 


969 The Mystery of Colde Fell; or. 

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978 Her Second Love 20 

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988 The Shattered Idol, and Letty 

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990 The Earl’s Error, and Arnold’s 

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995 An Unnatural Bondage, and 

That Beautiful liady 20 

1006 His Wife’s Judgment 20 

1008 A Thorn in Her Heart 20 

1010 Golden Gates 20 

1012 A Nameless Sin 20 

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1031 Irene’s Vow 20 

1052 Signa’s Sweetheart 20 

1091 A Jlodern Cinderella 10 

1134 Lord Elesmere’s Wife 20 

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1195 Dumaresq's Temptation 20 


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86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts 20 

227 Nauc.y 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains 10 

758 “ Good-bye, Sweetheart!” 20 

765 Not Wisely, But Too Well 20 

767 Joan 20 

768 Red as a Rose is She 20 

769 Cometh Up as a Flower 20 

862 Betty’s Visions 10 

894 Doctor Cupid 20 

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731 The Bayou Bride 20 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 

Red House. 1st half 20 

857 Kildee; or. The Sphinx of the 
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Robert Biicliauan’s Works. 

145 “Storm-Beaten;” God and The 

Man 20 

154 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard 10 

398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan. . . 10 

W6 The Master of the Mine 20 

892 That Winter Night; or. Love's 

Victory 10 

1074 Stormy Waters 20 

1104 The Heir of Linne 20 

Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 

375 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 
Minor 20 


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521 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 The Shadow of a Crime 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

Mrs. H. Lovett Cameron’s Works. 

595 A North Country Maid 20 

796 In a Grass Country. 20 

891 VeraNevill; or, Poor'Wisdom’s 

Chance 20 

912 Pure Gold . . ^ 

963 Worth Winning 20 

1025 Daisy’s Dilemma 20 

1028 A Devout Lover ; or, A Wasted 

Love 20 

1070 A Life’s IMistake 20 

1204 The Lodge by the Sea 20 

1205 A Lost Wife 20 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Work.s. 

215 Not Like Other Girls 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 1st 

half 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial. 2d 

half 20 

608 For Lilias. 1st half 20 

608 For Lilias. 2d half ^ 

930 Uncle Max. 1st half ^ 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY — Pocket Edition. 


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930 Uncle Max. 2d half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. 1st half 20 

932 Queenie’s Whim. 2d half 20 

934 Wooed and Married. 1st half . 20 
934 Wooed and Married. 2d half. 20 
936 NelUe’s Memories. 1st half. . . 20 
936 Nellie’s Memories. 2d half... 20 

961 Wee Wifle 20 

1033 Esther: A Story for Girls 20 

1064 Only the Governess 20 

11:35 Aunt Diana 20 

1194 The Search f or Basil Lyndhurst 30 
1208 Merle’s Crusade 20 

Ijewis Carroll’s Works. 

462 Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. Illustrated by John 

Tenuiel 20 

789 Throup:h the Looking-Glass, 
and What Alice Found There. 
Illustrated by John Tenniel. . 20 


Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

167 Heart and Science 20 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

175 Love’s Random Shot, and 

Other Stories 10 

233 “ I Say No or. The Love-Let- 

' ter Answered 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet 10 

623 My Lady’s Money 10 

701 Tlie Woman in White. 1st half 20 

701 The Woman in White. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. 1st half. 20 

702 Man and Wife. 2d half 20 

761 The Evil Genius 20 

896 The Guilty River. 20 

946 The Dead Secret 20 

977 The Haunted Hotel 20 

1029 Armadale, ist half 20 

1029 Armadale. 2d half 20 

1095 The Legacy of Cain 20 

1119 No Name. 1st half 20 

1119 No Name. 2d half 20 


Mabel Collins’s Works. 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter... 20 
8:^ The PrettiestWoman in Warsaw 20 

Hugh Conway’s Works. 


240 Called Back 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 
Other Tales 10 

301 Dark Da.ys 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest 10 

502 Can-iston’s Gift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 

543 A Family Affair 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories 10 

711 A Cardinal Sin 20 

804 Living or Dead 20 

8^ Bound by a Spell 20 


J. Feuiinore Cooper’s Works. 

60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy 20 

309 The Pathfinder 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers ; or. The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The Two Admirals 20 

359 The Water-Witch ^ 

361 The Red Rover 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or. The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or. The Hutted 

Knoll 20 

385 The Headsman; or, The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons 20 

394 The Bravo.. 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or. The Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish.. 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack 'I'ier ; or. The Florida Reef 20 

419 The Chainbearer ; or, The Lit- 

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522 Zig-Zag, the Clown ; or. The 

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699 The Sculptor’s Daughter. 2d 

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1080 Bertha’s Secret. 2d half 20 

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262 The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

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484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

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883 Once Again 20 

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319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

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1002 Marriage at a Venture 20 

101.5 A Thousand Francs Reward.. 20 

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1100 I\Ir. Meeson’s Will 20 

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281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

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408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished 20 

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987 Brenda Yorke 20 

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313 The Lover's Creed 20 

802 A Stern Chase 20 

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509 Nell Haffenden 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Dut.^i^, 20 

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1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. Vol. I. 20 
1139 Tom Brown at Oxford. Vol. H. 20 

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860 Her Lord and Master 20 

861 My Sister the Actress 20 

863 “ My Own Child.” 20 

864 ” No Intentions.” 20 

865 Written in Fire 20 

866 Miss Harrington’s Husband; 

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867 The Girls of Feversham 20 

868 Petronel 20 

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870 Out of His Reckoning 10 

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873 A Harvest of Wild Oats 20 

877 Facing the Footlights 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. 1st half 20 

893 Love’s Conflict. 2d half 20 

895 A Star and a Heart 10 

897 Ange ; or, A Broken Blossom. . 20 

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901 A Lucky Disappointment 10 

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939 Why Not? 20 

993 Figiiting the Air 20 

998 Open Sesame 20 

1004 Mad Dumaresq 20 

1013 The Confessions of Gerald Est- 

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1126 Gentleman and Courtier 20 

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1191 On Circumstantial Evidence.. 20 

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221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

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673 Story of a Sin 20 

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798 The Fashion of this World. . . . 10 

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602 Carniola 20 


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268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

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155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 20 

539 Silvermead 20 ' 

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11 John Halifax, Gentleman. 2d 

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898 Bulldog and Butterfly, and Ju- 
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537 Piccadilly 10 

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371 Margaret Maitland 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

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402 Lilliesleaf; or. Passages in the 
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410 Old Lady Mary 10 

527 The Days of My Life 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate 20 

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603 Agnes. 1st half 20 

603 Agnes. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent. 1st half 20 

604 Innocent. 2d half 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
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687 A Country Gentleman 20 

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710 The Greatest Heiress in Eng- 
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880 The Son of His Father 20 

902 A Poor Gentleman 20 

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671 Don Gesualdo 10 

672 In Maremma. 1st half 20 

672 In Maremma. 2d half 20 

874 A House Party 10 

974 Strathmore; or, Wrought by 

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974 Strathmore; or, Wrought by 
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981 Granville de Vigne; or, Held in 

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996 Idalia. 1st half 20 

996 Idalia. 2d half 20 

1000 Puck. 1st half 20 

1000 Puck. 2d half 20 

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336 Philistia 

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598 “Corinna.” A Study 10 

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157 Milly’sHero 20 

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590 The Courting of Mary Smith.. 20 
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109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 

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743 Jack’s Courtship. 1st half... 20 
743 Jack’s Courtship. 2d half — 20 

884 A Voyage to the Cape 20 

916 The Golden Hope 20 

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1048 The Wreck of the “Grosvenor” 20 
1129 The Flying Dutchman; or, The 

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1210 Marooned 20 

1213 Jenny Harlowe 10 


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428 Zero : A Story of Monte-Carlo 10 

477 Affinities 

811 The Head Station 20 

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173 The Foreigners ^ 

331 Gerald 20 

Charles Reade’ 8 Works. 


46 Very Hard Cash ^ 

98 A Woman-Hater 20 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 
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210 Readiana; Comments on Cur- 

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213 A Terrible Temptation ^ 

214 Put Yourself in His Place w 

216 Foul Play ^ 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or. Jealousy.. 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Peril- 

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235 “ It is Never Too Late to 
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257 Beyond Recall 10 

812 No Saint 20 

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201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “ The 

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353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
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362 The Bride of Lammermoor. .. 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth ; or, St. 

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418 St. Ronan’s Well 20 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

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432 THE WITCH’S HEAD. By 

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